


This Would Make You Happy?

by Ranowa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Fix-It, John is a Mess, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, No Eurus Holmes, Past Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Pining, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Protective John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess, Therapy, see chapter 1 for full trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: "Romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being."John, more than anything else, wants Sherlock to be happy. Sherlock, more than anything else, wants to make John happy.These two goals are not as in sync as one would think.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 240
Kudos: 261
Collections: Neuroatypical!Sherlock





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> (Mega author's note incoming, apologies) I wanted to provide a fuller summary here, because this is a bit of an odd one, so I just want to outline out what this'll be before you commit to jumping in. At the same time, the tags are pretty spoilery, while this fic also potentially has some very triggering content, so what I'm going to do is put an un-redacted, full summary and warnings in a tumblr post, [here](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/627302200683757568/unredacted-warnings-for-this-would-make-you-happy), and a much reduced, non-spoiler one below. Feel free to send me an ask or message on tumblr/here if you want to ask something specific about the content and I'll answer, but here is the redacted summary:
> 
> Post-TLD, John is in full pining mode, while also convinced that he doesn't deserve Sherlock, and is the absolute last person that Sherlock needs to be happy. Sherlock is pining right back, and misreads John's behavior to mean that he is not interested. As a result of one very badly misinterpreted conversation, John tries to get Sherlock to try a relationship with someone else, and when an old flame of Sherlock's appears, encourages Sherlock into a relationship with him. Sherlock, on the other hand, had very vehemently never wanted to see this man again. But Sherlock, more than anything else, wants John to be happy.
> 
> Essentially, this fic boils down to me angrily fixing the sheer amount of wrongness that was the hug scene in TLD. I /hate/ that scene. The lack of an acknowledgement of how severely messed up literally everything was, the lack of an apology for what happened in the morgue and the implication that Sherlock deserved it, (hell, the lack of an acknowledgement for how severely messed up Sherlock's plans was), and the way it ended with, of all things, John randomly announcing that Sherlock needs romance to be a "complete human being." Fuck. That. Shit. This is the only way I can read that scene as entirely canon and still have a good John, and I'm taking it. (However, the last few minutes of the episode, with Eurus, never happened. John has been seeing Ella this whole time, Redbeard was a dog, and there is no Sherrinford/secret sibling/whatever the hell.)
> 
> This fic does end in happier Johnlock. But one of the things it's fixing is the weird and very unnecessary assertion that Sherlock is incomplete as a person unless he's getting shagged by someone, so while it does end in Johnlock, it's the very tentative beginnings of it. The bulk of the fic is to fix their friendship (after TLD refused to)- a relationship comes after.

If he had to put a word on it, then John would say that he felt hollow.

Scooped and scraped clean until he was empty and very, very numb. It was a similar experience to the grief that had taken root inside him when Sherlock had stepped off a rooftop and made John watch it happen, and for two years John had thought it had been his stupid, callous words _(you machine)_ that had made him fall.

For a long time, that grief, and that guilt, had been the worst he had ever felt in his life. His best friend had killed himself, and maybe John hadn't pushed him off the edge himself, maybe John would've spoken to him differently if he'd known, if he'd realised, if he'd _listened,_ but the facts were that Sherlock had stepped off a rooftop and John was his best friend. John should've known. He should've--

Well, as it all turned out, it didn't matter what he should've done. Because Sherlock had still made the choice to hang up the phone and step off the rooftop, even with John begging him to stop. For two years, he'd at least had that. That he'd tried, in the end, to stop him. He'd done the right thing and it just hadn't been enough.

It was worse, this time.

This time, Sherlock's blood literally had been spilled over his hands.

This time, there was no part of him that even tried to argue back that it actually hadn't been his fault.

"So," he said finally, when he had gotten his voice back. He coughed and cleared his throat again, working his hands out as if they could beat the kinks out of his words and force them to comply. "To recap."

Ella sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. She did not interrupt, watching without judgment, and instead let him proceed at his own glacier pace.

John squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged himself on.

"My best friend relapsed on a drug addiction, for the third time since I've known him. I'm pretty sure at least the first was my fault. But there's no question about this one. He relapsed so badly it almost killed him, and he did it for me. He did it because he knew I wouldn't listen to him any other way.

"He put himself in a serial killer's hands, again because of me. The only reason he went after Culverton Smith to begin with was because of me, and the only reason he ended up there alone with him is because I left him there. I looked at him in a hospital bed and I left him there alone, and I didn't mean to come back.

"And the only reason he was in that hospital bed in the first place is because of me. I put him there. I hit... I _beat_ him. I hit him once because I thought he was going to hurt someone, but then I kept hitting him. I hit him until he was on the floor and someone had to pull me off of him and then I looked at him, and I told him he deserved it."

The clock ticked slowly by, grinding into his ears. The office was horribly quiet, just the ticking of the clock and the quiet rain outside and John's own incriminating confession, left to rot on the air.

His fingers curled into each other again, nails digging into the skin. He was disgusted enough with himself to throw up.

"That's it," he finished, when Ella did not speak. "That's everything."

Ella gave him a few moments more, as if he might suddenly remember something else that he had done. Which, John thought, was probably fair. He'd already said more than enough for a lifetime, but with Sherlock, it was never that simple. He wouldn't have been surprised if there was more to admit to, either. More for him to apologise for. More that he done _wrong._

"All right," Ella at last began, when it finally became clear that John was not going to remember yet another confession of yet another _worst thing that I've ever done in my life._ She cleared her throat and sat forward as well, setting her notes aside. "That's a lot to go over. I think, one thing that I want to say first, though. John. We're both doctors. And your sister has been an alcoholic for many years, now. While I will admit this is possibly the most complicated story of a relapse I've ever been told," and she smiled, here, just a little, trying to coax one out of John himself. "I think you know very well that Sherlock's decision to return to drugs was his choice, and his alone."

He shook his head severely, back and forth, just once. Wet bile still hovered at the back of his throat. "I watched the video." _Miss me?_ "I know that's how it normally is, but... this was not _normal._ I watched my... my _wife!_ Tell him to do it!" John covered his mouth again, his fingers digging together just to stop himself from slamming a hand into the nearby table or wall. Because wasn't that how he'd gotten into this mess in the first place? Not being able to stop himself from hitting something?

"She told him to do it," he forced out, like he was dragging the words through a minefield of broken glass with his bare hands. The words felt distant and tiny, foreign, each one sick in his stomach that made him grind his teeth. He felt defeated. "For me."

"And Sherlock made the decision to listen to her."

"Because I wasn't around to tell him not to."

It was an odd feeling-- this new, smoldering resentment at Mary. Because he'd watched that DVD, all right. He'd watched the night Sherlock had nearly been strangled to death in his own hospital bed. And then he'd watched it again, the night after. He'd watched it again and again, his anger growing more and more each time, until he'd snapped the bloody thing over his knee and thrown the pieces into the fire.

Mary had loved him. He believed that. And she had liked Sherlock. He believed that, too. Sherlock was a very difficult person to love, but once you really got to know him, he was an impossible person to hate. Mary had not hated him. She hadn't even disliked him.

But that DVD was not the first time she had nearly gotten Sherlock killed. It wasn't even the first time Mary had _intentionally tried to kill Sherlock,_ and that was what it was. Mary could dress it up in fancy words if she wanted, telling him to _go to hell,_ but that was what she'd meant. How else had Sherlock been meant to interpret that? What else had he been supposed to do?

That DVD was not the first time that Sherlock had nearly died because Mary had made the decision that on the scale of all of their lives and happiness, Sherlock's was expendable.

Sherlock, to Mary, had always been expendable.

Mary had bloody shot his best friend, and it had taken him until he'd watched that goddamn video and heard her send Sherlock to hell to finally realise that he'd never actually forgiven her for it.

"John," Ella began again, her voice solemn. "I'm sure there are dozens upon dozens of reasons why Sherlock is an addict, and why he relapsed. The same is true for everyone. But, what it has to come down to, is that Sherlock made his choices. Mary did not take his autonomy from him. And you most certainly did not, either. You did not watch him use. You did not prepare the needle for him. You did not hold him down and forcibly inject it against his will." She paused to watch him closely, her words absolutely sincere and without a hint of doubt. "You know that Sherlock taking personal responsibility is very important, in him staying clean. Has he ever expressed that he blames you or Mary for his relapse?"

John's mouth tightened, another awful feeling sinking in his stomach. He shook his head once, unwilling to say it, but then the words just came out anyway. "He doesn't... we haven't even talked about it, actually. But I know he doesn't blame anyone. It wasn't even a relapse, to him. He'll say it was all just for a case."

Once again-- they were both doctors.

John wasn't stupid enough to believe that, and neither was Ella.

One of Sherlock's only friends had died, taking a bullet that was meant for him. Said friend had then left him a bloody message from beyond the grave, telling him he'd best kill himself to fix it, or die trying. And meanwhile, his best friend had excised him entirely out of his life, taking his goddaughter with him, and left him with nothing more than a letter spelling out in very explicit detail that all of it was his fault, and said best friend wished he'd stayed dead.

Sherlock had relapsed because he'd wanted to use. It had nothing to do with the damn _case._

Ella cleared her throat. Not because John had made his point, but rather because they only had the hour, and sitting here having him stew to himself wasn't all that a productive use of their time. "Similarly," she started again, "the reason Sherlock was in that dangerous situation was not because you forced him into it. It was because he chose to put himself there."

"Blaming the victim?" He smiled weakly, staring back down at his exhausted hands. "Isn't that a bit against your creed?"

Ella tilted her head back, sharing with him a quietly amused look. "For any other patient that had been attacked by a serial killer, yes. And of course he didn't deserve what happened to him, and the blame only lies with Culverton Smith. But from everything you've said, it really sounds as if Sherlock intended to be attacked by that man. But John, _you_ did not intend that. _You_ did not leave him there alone, with any idea as to what was going to happen. You never would have left him there like that if you had known."

John swallowed back his own scoff, looking away. And wasn't that part of the problem, then? Sherlock, while on such a cocktail of psychotropic drugs he was lucky he hadn't offed himself on a fucking stroke, had not only predicted exactly how and when Culverton Smith would attack him. He had predicted that John would abandon him there to let him do it. He had known John was going to leave him there and if it hadn't been for Mary's DVD, he wouldn't have come back. Ever.

The seconds ticked by again, drilling periodically in the office's silence.

John waited wordlessly, his heart lodged into his throat for what he knew was to follow.

_Stop!_

_Let him do what he wants!_

_He's entitled._

This was the most awful he'd ever felt in his life. It was below rock bottom; there _was no_ bottom anymore. It just kept getting worse and worse and if it hadn't been for Rosie--

John stopped that line of thought before it could get off the ground.

Thinking things like that-- that he was a horrible person, had nothing left to live for, that the people he loved were really probably best off without him--

Those weren't good thoughts to think while in a therapy session.

Ella again cleared her throat. She was still carefully neutral, like a good therapist should be, but right now, the professionalism didn't help. He wanted someone to shout at him. He wanted to be blamed. He needed someone to tell him _this was your fault._

"I also wanted to talk to you a little bit about Sherlock's plan," she said next.

His next words fell straight off the tip of his tongue.

What?

No, this-- this was supposed to be about what he'd done to Sherlock. This was supposed to be about everything that he'd done wrong, not... what was this?

Ella sat forward a bit, still almost painfully neutral, as if she was trying to keep him calm. "I understand the situation was genuinely very abnormal, for multiple reasons, and can't be compared to any other that easily. I also don't know Sherlock very well himself, so my impressions of him are only from what you've told me and his public persona, so shouldn't be mistaken as a clinical assessment of any kind."

"But?"

"But," she said. "You just described to me how your partner-- platonic or not, he's still your partner, John-- relapsed on a very serious drug addiction, put himself in an incredibly dangerous situation, and attempted suicide, all to stop you from leaving him. In a more ordinary situation, without the extenuating factors present here, I would consider that a serious red flag."

No. _Absolutely_ not.

"... _No,"_ John gasped. He shook his head, squeezing his hands together so tightly his knuckles hurt. He felt almost ill. "That's not... what happened. I get that that's how it looks, okay. Like it was all a stunt for-- attention, or something. But that's not who Sherlock is. He didn't... god, Ella, he wasn't _faking it!"_

"I agree," she said easily. "I believe the danger was very real. That also doesn't change my assessment."

"That's not how it was! Sherlock wasn't, he--" This was not going to happen. No. He could not sit here and listen to this become _Sherlock's fault._ "He didn't do this for himself, he did it for me! He was trying to help me!"

"I agree," she assured again, nodding. "He was trying to help you. He was genuinely trying to help you, with only your welfare and happiness in mind... and now," she finished pointedly, looking at him. "As a direct result of those actions, you are unhappy, self-loathing, and guilt-ridden."

John's next protest caught in his throat.

It made sense. He absolutely hated it, but he could follow Ella's line of logic step by step through all the way to the end, and her conclusion made _sense._ Because it was true. He was miserable and it was because of the events that had happened during the Culverton Smith case.

But--

But it wasn't right. Ella's line of logic wasn't what had actually happened. It was a different interpretation, a different story; it wasn't _Sherlock._

"It's not how it sounds," he said finally, his voice hoarse. Once again, it took him unforgivably long to find his words at all. "That's not Sherlock's fault. It wouldn't be like this if I hadn't..."

_Abandoned him?_

_Hit him?_

_Hurt him?_

He was such a piece of shit.

"It's not a question of fault, John. It's--"

"It is! It is a question of fault, and it's mine! Sherlock didn't do anything wrong! He was only ever trying to help me, that's _all_ he's ever tried to do, and the only reason I've got anything to feel guilty over is because I keep messing it up! That is _not_ his fault!"

Ella held her hands up in slight surrender, acquiescing to John just like that. "Let's put fault aside for a moment, then. We don't need to talk about who I think was right or wrong. But, at the very least, I am concerned about Sherlock. You said so yourself that this is his third serious relapse in less than a year. That doesn't sound like something that you're doing-- that sounds like he has underlying issues of his own." She paused again, her frown deepening. "I'm also concerned that his sense of self-worth is so heavily contingent upon you. You could make or break him with one word, John. That's not healthy."

"Well, it's fine," John muttered darkly. "Because I'm not going to mess it up again."

He wasn't. He was sure of at least that much. He was _going_ to do right by Sherlock and Rosie because they were all he had left.

"But you can't promise that. Even if you do everything perfectly from here on out, John, you could still get hit by a car tomorrow." She hesitated, her eyes sympathetic, but it was clear that this was a point she was not going to back down on-- because she was right. "It's not healthy for you to have to worry that your friend will kill himself should something go wrong, and it's not healthy for Sherlock to have such a low view of himself that he thinks his own health, happiness, and life are nothing more than tools used to make you happy."

That was... that...

John sighed again, and slumped sideways to bury his face into his hands.

She was right. And she'd phrased it exactly in that way because she knew that was the only way he couldn't disagree with.

Whether it was something _wrong_ wasn't the point. Sherlock still shouldn't have done it.

"What are you trying to suggest?" he snapped, just barely managing to drag his eyes back up to look at her. It was unnecessarily hostile, because it certainly wasn't _her_ fault, but he couldn't help it anymore. He just couldn't. "That he see a therapist himself? Have a nice chat with one about loving yourself and positive thinking? _Sherlock Holmes?"_

"You've already said that he'd do anything for you, John. He's expressed as much to me himself. I'm simply suggesting that, instead of dangerous plans involving illicit substances and serial killers, he might try something a little more dull instead."

John kept his eyes turned away and his mouth shut, something uncomfortable throbbing in his chest. She was right. Once again. Sherlock would do quite literally _anything_ for him, and if John asked him to see a therapist... he'd do it.

But ignoring how wrong that was, and how impossible it was that Sherlock would do _anything_ for him even after _everything_ John had done to him, it still wouldn't help. Sherlock would physically go to a therapist's office and make an appointment and stand up and walk inside, sure. But he wouldn't take it seriously, that wasn't something even Sherlock could force himself to do, and if he didn't take it seriously it'd be a waste of time. He'd sit there spending the hour deducing the therapist, then skip off and snag some Chinese on the way home.

"I'll think about it," he settled on at last, swallowing his protest down. No matter that he disagreed with what she was suggesting, the core off what Ella had said was still right. It needed _something_ to fix it. Not a therapist, but something did have to be done. Sherlock couldn't keep doing this and John was going to put an end to it.

Ella was right. This was the third time Sherlock had used in a year and no matter how much John wanted to blame himself, no matter how much it _was_ his fault-- it wouldn't keep happening if there wasn't something wrong with Sherlock, too. Someone happy and satisfied with their own life wouldn't just keep ending up at the other end of a needle, no matter what his best friend did or had to say about it.

He'd fix it.

Somehow.

If Sherlock could go to hell for him, the least John could do was figure out some way to just _try_ and keep Sherlock happy, because right now, he wasn't.

John waited in the silence again, his fingers wound back together in his lap. He couldn't quite look at Ella again, the discomfort of it stuck in his throat. But he knew what was next. It had to be.

There was one thing that she hadn't yet talked about, and he knew that it was coming.

And Ella finally cleared her throat, and spoke up again.

"However, I think I can agree with you on one point, John. And that is that you should not have struck Sherlock. He did not deserve it, and you should not have done it. That was not merely unacceptable, that was abusive behavior that likely rises to the level of a crime." She paused, watching him still and entirely unreadable. "Have you spoken to Sherlock about what happened? I can see that you feel genuine regret. Have you apologised to him?"

"...no."

Ella's frown deepened.

John closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing in a deeper breath. He'd never felt more awful in his life. "I meant to," he rushed out, because it was _true,_ god, at least he had this, at least he wasn't _that bad._ "I meant to, I talked to him, but... somehow we ended up talking about Mary, of all people. I told him it wasn't his fault, at least, what happened to her. Though I'm not sure how much he believed me. And then it--"

"Then?"

John swallowed again. He thought about Sherlock, unshaven and bloody-eyed in his chair, looking confused and small and insecure, a mug of tea in his hands as he looked anywhere but at John. Fuck. _Fuck._

"I shouted at him to get a girlfriend," he finished, scratching his jeans into his fist. "Then we went out and got cake and I went home, and I haven't seen him since."

Ella blinked.

"That's... somewhat of a non-sequitur." She hesitated, searching for the right words, while John just turned away and returned to staring at his knees. "How did Sherlock's romantic life--"

"We were talking and he got a text message. From... a woman. The--" _A woman. The Woman. The Woman Woman._ "--someone he's had feelings for in the past, and someone I thought wasn't in the picture anymore, but apparently she is. And it came out of nowhere, and I just got angry at him again. I got angry at him for getting a text from a woman." He shook his head, again unable to look at her. Putting it in words like this he heard exactly how horrible it sounded aloud, how absolutely _unforgivable_ it was. It was already unforgivable without this part to begin with, but this, too? On top of everything else?

There wasn't any lower to get. Rock bottom was somewhere on the floor of that fucking morgue. This was beneath it. This was even lower than that and John hated himself more than he had the words to express.

"And I still don't know..." The words were stuck in his throat, festering there, like an infected wound, and they didn't want to come out at all but he had to say them. He'd shouted at Sherlock to get a girlfriend, hadn't he? Told him he wasn't a _complete human being_ without it? Told his probably asexual best friend that after everything he'd just done for John, he still needed to go out and get shagged to count as human?

If he could say that to Sherlock, then he had no excuse not to say this.

"I still don't know if I was angry at Sherlock, for having what I didn't, or..."

"It would be understandable if you were," Ella started gently. "You've just lost your wife, so for Sherlock to--"

"Or if I was angry at _her_ for it."

 _There._ The penny dropped. The other shoe fell.

John wanted Sherlock, and he was angry at Irene Adler for having what he didn't.

* * *

_**sent / 15:16** _

_You ruin everything. -SH_

**The Woman / 15:20**

Oh? Do tell

_**sent / 15:20** _

_John was finally here. We were finally talking. And then your text alert went off, and now we're not anymore. -SH_

**The Woman / 15:21**

Have you two finally got on with it, then

**The Woman / 15:21**

Don't lie to me and say you don't know what I mean

**The Woman / 15:21**

It's quite obvious you're smitten :)

_**sent / 15:21** _

_It's not funny. -SH_

_**sent / 15:25** _

_It's not about that. John isn't gay. -SH_

**The Woman / 15:26**

As ever, you remain observant to the insignificant, and blind to the most crucial

**The Woman / 15:26**

Have dinner with me?

_**sent / 15:26** _

_No. -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> The first eight chapters are almost entirely complete, and the last two are fully outlined, so currently, I plan for updates to come every few days. I promise I'll never leave you hanging for too long on a painful cliffhanger ;)
> 
> [Come check out additional commentary for this fic on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/627302512406544384/so-as-is-probably-apparent-i-have-a-ton-of)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!! 
> 
> And now: onwards! :D

_**1998** _

Sherlock's guide for the day was a goldmine of deduction potential.

Mid-twenties, if he had to put a guess on it. Though with the regrettable personal grooming and hygiene of the average teenager. The state of his clothes suggested that he'd slept at lab the past two days, perhaps three, and by the mustard stain on the ill-fitting lab coat, had also been subsisting off whatever he could find at the cafe downstairs. By the glint of the earring in his left ear, very, very gay: by the way he'd looked at Sherlock upon meeting him, very, very not interested. In fact, by the way he kept flipping papers on his clipboard, marking notes rapidly down on the last sheet, nothing at all about Sherlock was his first priority today. He kept shoving his pen behind his ear, dislodging his glasses, and clearly had not noticed that the pen was leaking, and the shell of his ear was staining more and more blue.

_Honestly._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and set about continuing to ignore every word that he said.

"And this is Dr. Wilson's lab, but I think I overheard him mention he wasn't looking for any new students, this coming term... we can just--"

"Is that the new model of centrifuge?" Sherlock ducked under his stretched out arm, sidestepping him into the deserted lab. It was! "It _is!"_ he cried. "They wouldn't get us the new one at Eton, they didn't want to train us to use it, but here it is! Just like the catalogue!"

"It's... yes. It is." The grad student behind him coughed, and there was a rustle of papers again. Still shuffling through the pile in his hands; still barely even listening to Sherlock. "But I really don't think you're a good fit, for Dr. Wilson's lab. We need to move on now, all r--"

"You're also the worst student in the department. Aren't you? What was it-- Victor?" Sherlock didn't want to, not at all, but it was apparent this was the only way he'd get what he wanted, so he turned back around. He turned just enough, switching his attention off from the glorious centrifuge back to where his guide still lingered in the doorway, now looking especially haggard and distracted. And pathetic. "Unless they give all actually _useful_ students babysitting duty?"

Victor's pale, scruffy jaw tightened.

Sherlock swiveled back to the centrifuge, edging his voice to be as haughty and caustic as he could make it. People didn't like him at all, but they really didn't like him when he sounded overtly hostile like this. And he had not come all this way to make time for idiots. "Dr. Wilson, you said? I've read his research on organic polymerization. It's truly fascinating-- why don't you go make yourself useful and track him down, for me? I want an interview."

He wasn't here to entertain idiots. He had been made to put up with these _imbeciles_ his entire life, to grind his teeth, and bide his time, and it was all supposed to be for this day. University was when he was finally supposed to find people like him. University was where he was supposed to finally slip out from Mycroft's thumb and shadow, and to not be _bored._

He was absolutely not going to start it off by being shunted off to be _handled_ like a _baby_ by the biggest idiot in the chemistry department.

But Victor, after several long, utterly tedious moments, did not go away. He just stood there. He just stood right there in the doorway, undeterred by the rudest dismissal that Sherlock had been able to think up, and watched him with a look that he had never quite seen before. He did not care to categorise or define it.

"Look," he started, clearing his throat. He sounded tired. He sounded very, very tired. "I've been here a while. And--"

"Four years, isn't it? No... five?"

Victor frowned again. But still, Sherlock's attempts to insult him away were not successful. He was not dissuaded. He was not even distracted. "Five and a half, kid." His frown deepened, dark eyes sweeping over him in wary, suspicious skepticism. Once again, a look that Sherlock had never been treated to before, and that alone made him uneasy, because it meant he didn't know what he was supposed to look like back to it. "Which means that I know what I'm talking about, when I tell you that you are not a good fit for this lab. I think you'd be better off--"

"Victor?"

Sherlock jerked his head up, in the exact same breath as Victor flinched.

Another man swung his way around the doorframe.

Older than Victor. Almost certainly a young professor, someone older and put together and competent, someone who _belonged_ here. Someone that Sherlock wanted to impress, if he wanted to find a mentor here, and the chance to stay.

He drew himself up to his full height, and tried very hard to look the right way. To arrange his face the way he was supposed to, the way he'd practised in the mirror. Smile. He was supposed to _smile._

Except the professor wasn't even looking at him.

He spoke briefly and quietly to Victor, too quietly for Sherlock to overhear. But by the look on his face, it was a reprimand of some kind. Victor was taller than him, taller than Sherlock, but seemed to shrink underneath the lecture, the previous irritation on his face doused into a blank slate as his eyes just dropped to the floor. Whatever there'd been of his confidence before, it was completely gone now. "Yes, sir," he said softly, "yes," and Sherlock grinned.

He'd _known_ Victor was the worst student on the floor. What other explanation could there be, for why a professor would be speaking to him like that?

"I will, Osc... Dr. Wilson." Victor slid another step back, chewing hard on his pen. He lingered in the doorway, his fingers scratching hard at his earring all of a sudden, dark eyes darting between the professor and Sherlock.

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be, Victor?"

The grad student flinched again, swallowing visibly from all the way across the room. He glanced at his professor, looking almost like a kicked dog, and once more at Sherlock.

Then he was gone, and Sherlock was left alone with the professor.

The older man turned immediately to look at Sherlock, and whatever irritation that Victor had caused him vanished away in an instant. He smiled at him, professional and pleasant, and crossed the room to join him at the centrifuge. "You're the prospective student, is that right?" He held out a hand, and unlike Victor, he gave Sherlock nothing at all less than his full attention. "The young one?"

Sherlock drew himself again up to his full height. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself from preening, just a little. He was bright and proud of himself and glowing, absolutely _delighted,_ and shook his hand back. "That's right." Smile, _smile,_ he was supposed to smile-- "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes," he parroted, his eyebrows raised. A beat of silence passed between them, and Sherlock could tell he was being silently examined. Silently _admired._

And then, Dr. Wilson smiled.

"Well," he said warmly, and gave Sherlock's hand a tight, welcoming squeeze. "Aren't we special?"

* * *

_**Present** _

* * *

The right thing for John to do would've been to take a few days, get his thoughts in order, and only let himself head back to Baker Street when he knew exactly what he was going to say.

He'd already tried the whole _speaking off the cuff_ thing, on Sherlock's birthday. And it had ended up a complete disaster. He'd fumbled on just about everything important, somehow _cried_ all over Sherlock's shoulder in what had supposed to be _his apology_ , and then wound up at a cake place after shouting at him about Irene Adler.

Clearly, John wasn't very good at unplanned conversations.

But after drowning his sorrows in one too many drinks the night before, tossing and turning in a restless, horrible sleep, and rolling out of bed sick to his stomach and feeling even more like a piece of trash than usual the next morning, he knew that he just couldn't put this off any longer. It was killing him to wait, and he wasn't spending the days working out what he was going to say. He just sat there, stewing, feeling worse and worse about himself, and there just had to come a point where it stopped.

He texted Molly, and upon getting the confirmation that she could swap shifts with John to look after a slighter fussier, sleepier baby at a slightly less fancy flat, he crossed over to Rosie.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured. "I am so _sorry."_

She whined quietly, blinking up at him. In a reflex, it seemed like, she pulled the soft toy she was sucking out of her mouth, and reached her arms up to him instead.

John picked her up at once. She immediately hugged around his neck and he hugged her back, stroking her very short, very soft hair. Honey-gold, just like her mother's.

He wondered if it'd darken, when she got older. Many babies were born with light hair, only for it to darken later in infancy. If Mary had been dyeing her hair, even when he'd met and married her. If even that had been a lie, or--

 _No._ John took a deep, deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He held Rosie closer and listened to her babble and counted to ten. Like Ella had said. _Breathe. Don't do this. Breathe._

It didn't matter if Mary had been dyeing her hair or not. She was dead now. It didn't matter if that was one more lie. Rosie's hair would be whatever color it was going to be, she would be beautiful no matter what, and that was that.

He held his breath until the angry, pressing heat inside his skull receded, and then he pressed his face back to Rosie's hair.

"Can you give me just a few more days?" He breathed deeply again, still stroking her hair, but he sniffed once and battled all the tears back into just silent grief in the back of his throat. He'd cried all over Sherlock; he wouldn't cry all over Rosie, too. "I'm so sorry. You're being so wonderful. So brave, love. Just give me a few more days to make things right, okay?"

"Da," she blubbered. "Dada?"

"...Yes. Yes. It's me." Suddenly there was a lump in his throat. With how little he'd been here since Mary had died, he could hardly believe she still looked up at him and could remember _Dada._

"Yes. Let me fix things with Sherlock, and then I'll start fixing things with you. I promise. Whatever I have to do, Rosie." He rubbed her back again and let her tug curiously on his hair, bouncing her very gently. "Maybe we'll go to see Sherlock in a few days, when he's feeling better? Would you like that? He's missed you so much, you know."

_And that's my fault. That's my fault, too. All of this is my fault._

He supposed it was progress, at least. A few weeks ago, that voice would've been Mary's instead of his own.

Rosie made a babbling sound again, her face still warm and soft against his neck. She tugged a second time on his hair and John squeezed his eyes shut and made himself breathe.

He had to fix this.

He had to do better by his daughter.

But first, he had to do better by Sherlock.

* * *

John got to Baker Street with the dry pang of a hangover in the back of his eyes and throat, his heart anxious in his chest, and every step up the seventeen stairs steady.

He could do this.

He stepped into the flat, and right away, found himself face to face with Sherlock.

"John," he said, and sat there, stretched out in his armchair, a bundle of dressing gown and stubble and Mrs. Hudson's afghan, and he looked positively _delighted._ He also looked absolutely unsurprised, but he supposed this was to be expected-- he'd probably figured him out by the sound of his footsteps alone. "You're here."

He sat there with stitches still in his face, and he looked at John like the sight of him in his doorway was all his Christmases come at once.

No. This ended _today._

"Yeah," he said, and made himself smile back. "I know this was Molly's shift, but after last time I figured we could... hang out a bit. If that's all right."

"Yes," Sherlock said. He all but fell over himself in his rush to get it out, his eyes bright. It reminded him how he'd stumbled over himself talking to Irene Adler, that first time; that he was just as flustered now as he had been back then. Christ. "Yes. Of course. It's-- that would always be all right with me. John."

This wasn't right. How could this be right? How could Sherlock just sit there and look up at him like that and be so _happy_ he was here? After all that had happened, _how_ could he still be so willing to give him _everything?_ He felt sick.

"...Rosie?" Sherlock asked, when John didn't go on. He sounded like he was very carefully prodding the air, as if searching for stable ground. His throat moved and he shifted in his chair, starting to sit further upright.

"Molly's watching her. Sit down, I'll get the tea." John moved past him, acutely glad for the excuse to occupy himself, be useful, and most importantly look anywhere but at Sherlock. He replayed their last exchange in his head, this time focusing on the look on Sherlock's face, and instantly set about fixing it. "I can bring Rosie over in a few days. Just-- when you're a little healthier. I know you're doing much better, but I can't keep an eye on her and you at the same time. If that's..." Or was he overstepping? Really, since when would Sherlock Holmes want to entertain a baby at his flat? "If you'd be okay with it, of course--"

"Yes," Sherlock said again, almost too quickly. He nodded once, then again and again. "You and Watson are always welcome here, John."

 _Yeah,_ John thought sullenly. He turned his back again before Sherlock could see his face fall, pulling out the kettle. _That's the problem._

He set kettle up to boil in a continued silence. It was awkward, again, painfully, unbearably awkward, the same quiet that had suffocated the flat the last time John had been here, on Sherlock's birthday. There was still this gap between them, a space that had never been there before, and John didn't know what to do to breech it.

He was in love with Sherlock and didn't even know how to start a bloody conversation with him.

What an odd bloody thing to think. John Not-Gay Watson, _in love,_ with Sherlock Holmes.

Well, it was true. _Sorry, dad, but it looked as if your son ended up being a filthy queer after all._ It didn't matter how much product Sherlock put in his hair, he was a man, and one of the drunken hazes of a dream he'd had last night was of shagging him into the damn mattress.

The upside of it, he reflected darkly, was that he would never act on it. Not with Sherlock. So he supposed his dad wouldn't have minded all that much after all.

The kettle boiled. He took it off the heat, feeling Sherlock's eyes digging into his back with every step. He measured it out into the mugs already on the counter-- one glass, one still plastic, he noted-- and added a metric ton of sugar to the plastic one. The sugary cake at the cake place had been the brightest he'd seen Sherlock's eyes in weeks.

"You're feeling better, then?" he finally started, facing Sherlock again. "Everything still going as it should?"

Sherlock's face twitched into a sardonic smile. "As it should, Doctor." He held up one hand, flat, turning it this way and that, and accepted his tea with the other. "See? Perfectly steady."

It was. John doubted it was all that perfectly steady all day long, because if it was, Sherlock would've shaved. He hated how the stubble felt on his face and he hated how it made him look.

"And how's everything else?" John pressed, unable to help himself. "Some muscle aches are normal, still, and so is insomnia, but--"

"John, I know what's normal and what's not. If something is wrong, I promise that you'll be the second to know." Sherlock smiled into his tea, his gaze going distant. "Though I have been somewhat reliably informed I earned every day of this and had best take it without complaining."

Mycroft, probably. Or possibly Greg. Either one was likely.

John understood the sentiment. He even agreed with it, a little. No matter how much responsibility he felt over it, Sherlock had still made the choice to relapse. Of course he didn't want Sherlock to be in pain, but maybe the hell that detoxing and withdrawal was would make him think twice the next time.

 _Next time._ John shuddered. He didn't know if he could do a next time.

Sherlock ducked his face back into his tea, taking a particularly loud sip. He'd gone back to not quite looking at John, stretched back in his armchair and little finger stroking a very quick rhythm along the cup. It wasn't the tremors, this time, but just a habit he'd noticed from Sherlock many years ago. A fidgeting that, ironically, seemed to help him keep still.

John sat in his own chair. His own chair, that was still right here. The armchair that had been set right here, impeding the path to the kitchen, from the day that Mary had shot a coin in a dark and abandoned house while Sherlock bled out for the second time in a week across from her. _His_ chair.

He looked across at Sherlock.

He certainly did look better. He wasn't skin and bones anymore, or pasty white, or wilting under greasy hair or watering eyes. He was fully dressed and there was even a bit of product in his hair, and-- why was John noticing that? Why was John thinking about that?

The visible bruises, at least, were gone. The subconjunctival hemorrhage was finally fading, his left eye no longer a stomach-punch of dark red but instead a fainter yellow as the blood drained. The stitches in his brow were almost ready to come out-- John would probably have him sit down under the brighter kitchen light in a few days-- and just by the way he was breathing, more unrestrained, deeper, he knew his ribs were healing well, too.

He still had broken ribs. Even if he'd never relapsed at all, he'd still need at least another week of convalescence before he ought to be leaving the flat on more than a trip to Tesco's, and a week more after that before any serious physical activity like chasing a suspect. This, John would put his foot down on, because the last thing Sherlock needed was a re-hospitalisation, temptation of morphine, and a punctured lung. He still had broken ribs, and he looked like he'd been punched in the face. Because he'd been punched in the face.

A very big part of John wanted to call it quits, go straight back home, and drink himself to sleep. He wanted to do what he'd done on Sherlock's birthday-- hit the ground running with Sherlock's apparently unending capacity to forgive, sweep everything under the rug with it, and then keep running. Run away. Again.

_I love you so much it makes my stomach hurt and I can't ever tell you._

He took another deep breath, and forced the words out before he tripped over his own cold feet.

"I wanted to talk to you about something, actually."

"I know," Sherlock said, without missing a beat. He sipped his tea again, watching over the rim. "It's transparent."

John couldn't help it, even with his nerves; he smirked and nearly laughed right into his mug. "Can you deduce what about, then?"

"Of course not. There are a dozen unknown variables outside of my control that I have no ability to reasonably predict. It could be anything from a suggestion for a case or asking if I've got immunity to varicella, because Rosie picked it up at daycare. I am immune, by the way." He smiled again, very slightly, relaxing all the way back into his chair. "I'm a scientist, John. Not a psychic."

He grinned weakly again, though it felt a bit forced. "No chickenpox, no. Please don't jinx it."

Okay. He just had to start. It would be easier once he finally got the words out.

John set his tea down, gently, wanting all things breakable and fragile out of his hands for this. He sat forward to meet Sherlock's eyes, his bright, bright blue eyes, even the one still ringed in fading red-yellow blood.

"I needed to talk to you-- to say something-- about what happened in the morgue, Sherlock. About what I did."

The reaction was immediate.

Sherlock didn't exactly flee. But he did squirrel backwards in his chair, instantly breaking gazes with John, his little finger starting up again as he looked just about anywhere else that he could. It looked like he'd welcome another explosion on the street, if that was what it took to distract him-- anything other than this.

"John," he started quietly. "I understand why--"

_He's entitled._

_I killed his wife._

"No. _No,_ Sherlock," he snapped, and it came out with more force than intended, but he had to say this. "You don't. You really don't. And it's... okay, I get that neither of us want to talk about this, but we have to. I should've said this days ago and maybe it doesn't bother you, but it bothers me. All right?"

Sherlock sat, again, very, very still. His little finger was the only part of him that moved at all, incessant strokes along the mug, up and down, and his wary expression faded to unreadable.

"All right," he finally said.

Enough of this, John decided.

Enough beating around the bloody bush.

"I'm sorry that I hit you, Sherlock. I shouldn't have. I thought you were going to hurt someone and that I needed to stop you, but after that-- it wasn't okay. I hit you because I was angry, and hurt, but... you didn't deserve it. You could never have deserved that, Sherlock. From anyone."

The detective sat quietly, his expression remaining almost painfully shuttered. He did not look remotely accepting. "You were grieving," he started, voice low. It sounded like an unwilling compromising with _you were entitled._ "The last few years have been very painful for you, and many of the tragedies were in some respect my fault. It was an understandable--"

"Sherlock, stop it. Stop this. Stop excusing it! I-- I hurt you. I could've _killed you,_ do you realise that? If I'd kicked you too hard? If you'd hit your head the wrong way?" He wanted to reach out to him, to take his rough face in his hands and shake him, _make him_ understand. "Why do you keep saying it's okay? This wasn't the first time. I want to promise it'll never happen again but you have no reason to even believe me. I-- you said it was okay _while I was hitting you,_ Sherlock. It wasn't! How could... how could you ever think that?!""

And there was more to that, more guilt and horror and shame, but John didn't have the words for it. If he kept trying to find them he was probably going to end up breaking into tears, and the one thing he'd already sworn to not do today was _that._ This wasn't going to devolve into _Sherlock_ comforting _him_ for the second time.

Sherlock, who sat there blinking like a poor deer in the headlights. He just _looked_ at him. He didn't get it. He really didn't understand what John was trying to say. "I've... had worse," he said, and shifted uncomfortably, arms curling around his stomach. He clearly didn't want to talk about this. "I've really had much worse, John. It's--"

"I know," he muttered darkly. "And that really doesn't make it better, Sherlock."

He knew he'd had worse. He'd seen the scars on his back, when he'd been in hospital after being shot. The scars that Sherlock had refused to talk about beyond _accidents_ that had happened _while he was away,_ but John was a doctor, and more importantly than that, he wan't an idiot. Those scars weren't accidents. Hell, he'd seen the scar on his bloody _chest,_ when his loving wife had _shot him._

He wanted to kill whoever the people were that had put those scars on Sherlock's back. He wanted to kill them for _daring_ to do that to this amazing, fantastic, _kind_ man. And there'd been a moment, or... or much more than just one... where he'd wanted to kill Mary for it. Where he even might've done it, if she hadn't been carrying their child. His child.

And now he'd put bruises into Sherlock's skin, and broken bones inside his body, and beaten him. He'd hurt him. He'd kicked him until he was spitting up blood onto the floor.

If he'd watched someone else hurting Sherlock like that a few years ago, before Mary's death, the wedding, the fucking fall, he'd have-- have--

How the hell had they gotten here? How had things gone so _wrong?_

"John," Sherlock said again, somewhat urgently now. He really, really did not want to talk about this. "It's all right. It is. If you need to apologise, then-- I accept it without reservation. Of course I do." He sounded bewildered for a moment, as if he could hardly believe it himself. "We were both at our worst, so of course--"

 _"No!_ " And suddenly it was a good thing he'd already put his tea down, because John was abruptly _furious_ and if he'd had it in hand he might've thrown it. "No, Sherlock, don't just-- this can't work like that! You were at your worst and you hurt yourself with it, and that's... not okay, but... I was at my worst and I hurt _you._ They're not the same thing and I can't... Sherlock, I can't do this knowing that you don't even care. That you think you-- _deserved it."_

Sherlock flinched very slightly. Just a small, full-body twitch. He put his own tea down and steepled his fingers together, winding them into a tight knot as if to keep them still, hiding the shadows of his face behind them. He looked faintly ill for a second and once again stared at his hands rather than John.

The lack of an immediate rebuttal said the truth easily enough.

Sherlock still felt that he'd deserved it.

But it also at least meant that he respected this enough to not lie about it, and that at least had to mean something.

"If I may. I hurt myself and you, John," Sherlock said, still frowning. "And you-- did hurt me, yes. But you also hurt yourself."

"I didn't--"

"You have plainly been upset over this for days. You are very unhappy and, if you'll forgive me for overstepping, appear to have actually increased your alcohol consumption from before this case. Whatever you want to say, you are clearly in pain, and--" He started to glance at John, then twitched again, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're angry."

It was John's turn to flinch.

Yeah. Yeah, he was. He was _very_ angry. Not at Sherlock.

But Sherlock had looked at him, and read him, and recognised that he was angry-- but thought it was at him.

John took another deep breath. Forcibly, finger by finger, he unclenched his fists in his lap, and dug his hands into the arms of his chair instead. He still badly wanted, _needed,_ to have this conversation, but... maybe Sherlock wasn't ready to have it.

There was a fucking difference between Sherlock hurting himself with needles and dangerous drugs, and John hating himself because he'd done a horrible thing. Because he was _still_ doing a horrible thing, sitting here in the flat looking at Sherlock's _bruised face_ and no small part of him wanted to just kiss that wary shadow of fear away.

"I am angry," he said, when he could be sure he could at least get the words out calmly. "But I'm not angry at you." _And even if I was I wouldn't hit you. I'll never hit you again. Never. I swear, Sherlock._ "Please don't-- look like that. It's okay, I promise. But can you just... can you give me something, here?"

Sherlock swallowed again, still shifting. He remained entirely unreadable and couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if he'd tried. "Of course," he said, his voice small.

John wondered if there was actually anything he could ask for, that Sherlock would say no to.

"I need you to give me time. Okay? You... don't just forgive me for this. And don't say it was okay or I was entitled or any of that _rubbish._ Make me earn it. And don't--" He closed his own eyes for a moment, blinking back the sting. "I want to promise you that I'll never do this to you again but clearly I can't, because this isn't even the first time. But that's what I want to do. I want to be able to promise you that something like this will never happen again and that's what I'm trying to do with Ella. Sherlock, _please._ I..."

_I, what?_

_I'm sorry? I hate myself? I hate myself even more when you forgive me? I love you and hate myself, and isn't that backwards, isn't that not how it's supposed to be--_

Once again, Sherlock merely fidgeted. He looked like he'd give anything for this conversation to be over, and still seemed to have a serious difficulty with actually looking John in the eye.

Something about this... wasn't right.

On one hand, Sherlock obviously wasn't comfortable in this discussion, and he kept not being able to look at John, and flinching, and clearly was trying to say what he thought John wanted to hear instead of what he really thought and felt. And if John hadn't known Sherlock so well... it made a horrible sort of sense, didn't it? Because he had just _hit him,_ and told him he deserved it. A normal person probably would do all those things. A normal person probably would be-- afraid of him.

But that wasn't what this was. Sherlock wasn't afraid of _him,_ but... he was afraid of something. There was something about what was going on here that was making him feel uneasy and John was starting to get the feeling it wasn't just this. There was something here underneath the Culverton case that was bothering Sherlock.

A new seed of anger started to grow in his stomach, this time closer to righteous fury, and John took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

"I see," Sherlock said quietly, his voice low again. He shifted and pretty transparently swallowed a wince, his arms still curled around his torso and stomach, and his miraculous eyes finally, _finally_ , flickered up to meet John's again. "This will make you happy?"

John clenched his jaw again, fingers kept forcibly still. It felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

This wasn't supposed to be about him! That was the point; didn't Sherlock get that? This wasn't about _John,_ this was about him trying to apologise and make amends for hurting his best friend, but--

Maybe, he acquiesced, with gritted teeth and a heavy heart, this was the best he was going to get.

Sherlock had already said he forgave him, without reservation or hesitation. Maybe Ella was right after all, that this went deeper than what John had done, but into why Sherlock had been and was so willing to let him. And as much as John hated it, maybe the best he was going to get was Sherlock making an effort to pretend he hadn't forgiven it the moment John's fist had collided with his cheek. Maybe asking him to accept he'd been hurt by one of his only real friends was just one step too far to ask of him. Especially right now, when he was still in pain and hurting and reeling after one of the worst periods of their lives.

John was just going to have to do his damn best to actually earn Sherlock's forgiveness, and make sure he never needed it again.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Or-- no. It won't make me happy. But it is something that I think I need."

"All right," Sherlock said again. "Then... all right. If that is what you need."

John gritted his teeth again, forcing the knot in his chest to loosen, and nodded.

He'd do this right.

"And... actually... there's one more thing, Sherlock. I--" He grinned at the look on Sherlock's face, but it was over something that ached, deep in his stomach. "Almost done, I promise. It's just about something else you said."

Sherlock grimaced again, like he'd tasted something sour. "I might need to never speak again, if it continues to prompt conversations like this."

"Shut up, you'd combust in less than a day. No, it's just... it's about Mary, Sherlock." He took another breath, bracing himself through it. Across from him, Sherlock's put-upon expression quickly faded, resigned back into proper grief, and John pushed ahead. "Look. Regardless of how everything ended up turning out, Mary was there for me when you died, and she gave me Rosie. I'll always be grateful to her for those two things. But she didn't give you anything, Sherlock. You owe her _nothing."_

"I owe her my life," he started, suddenly raspy. "She would be here if not for me."

For the second time, John was glad to have already put his porcelain cup down.

"She saved your life after nearly taking it from you," he said. Once again, he had to wait to speak until he could wrestle his voice back into something that approached calm. "She... she _did_ take it from you. Your heart stopped, and Sherlock, just don't insult me right now by telling me she called the ambulance. I'm a doctor. She knew exactly what chances she was giving you and it's a miracle you survived, and she left you with a lifetime of chronic pain, and things about _the Work_ that you can't do anymore, and you know, probably did take a few years off your life. None of which you talk about, but I'm a bloody good doctor, a trauma surgeon, I _know_ it's there, so don't try and tell me it's fine. I know it's not."

Sherlock opened and shut his mouth, the muscles in his jaw jumping. Once again clearly disliking the spotlight, he broke gazes with John, rubbing the heel of his hand over his chest. "What exactly-- is the point of this?" He rubbed the scar again, twisting a fistful of dressing gown into his fingers and over his chest. "Mary is dead. Which, by the way, is much worse off than me. I'm fairly sure you're not meant to speak ill of the dead."

"Sometimes, you need to. Sherlock, the other day, you said that Mary... conferred a value onto your life, or something like that, when she saved it, and-- no." It was hard to swallow, but he still forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes or at least watch his face, because this was _important._ This was uncomfortable and sentimental and even more important than an apology for what he'd done to him in the morgue. "She didn't confer anything, and you don't owe her anything. Your life has value because you're you. If you're really insistent on paying her back then just fucking _live,_ Sherlock. That's it. No more drugs, no more using yourself as bait for a serial killer, no more trying to get yourself killed because you think it'll help me. If you really need a reason then do it for me if you can't do it for yourself, but... not because of Mary. She didn't do anything but start to pay you back for the day she shot you."

There was more, there. There was so much more that John wanted to say and couldn't. _Your life has value because you're the most bloody amazing person on the planet and it baffles me that you can't see that._ And _it scares the hell out of me that you apparently don't._ And _how long have you actually thought this way about yourself because it can't have been since just Mary. It can't have been since just that fucking letter._

But he couldn't say any of that because it came too close to _I love you_ and-- he couldn't. No.

This friendship was already more than he deserved, and it was strained and fragile. It was tentative, between them, and right now John wasn't sure how much pushing it could take. He couldn't open his mouth and ask for more. Because even if Sherlock would say yes-- Sherlock, Sherlock who was not gay or straight or, or _anything,_ Sherlock who didn't do relationships at all, Sherlock who might just say yes to him anyway because John was starting to see that there really was nothing he could ask that Sherlock would say no to...

He couldn't ask that of him because he wouldn't make Sherlock happy. He knew he wouldn't. He'd been Sherlock's closest friend for nearly a decade, and look at where it had gotten them.

He'd lost any right to ever hoping he could have something with Sherlock the day he'd hit him. The day he'd written that letter. The best he could hope for now was to just be Sherlock's friend again, and do what he could to make sure he was happy.

"I hope we're not going to make a habit of this, then?"

John started again, looking up from his clenched hands. "Sorry?"

Sherlock smiled wanly back. "This," he said, gesturing, with something that just might've been a smirk. "We're two for two now, on... _sentimental chats._ Is this to be our new pattern, then? Because we really don't seem to be very good at this."

John swallowed another snicker, fondness clenching in his chest. "We don't, do we?" If he were closer, he might've squeezed his hand, or touched his face, or-- no. Bad line of thought. _No more of that, John._ "No. We'll be back to being two properly emotionally constipated Englishmen in no time, I think."

Sherlock smirked again, hiding it back into his tea, and looked closer to himself again for the first time since they'd sat down. He drained an especially long sip, his mouth twitching, and when he put his mug down it was for an unrestrained grin. "Good," he said. "Because I think we have a case."

A moment later, the door swung shut downstairs, and Sherlock started to glow like a lightbulb just switched on.

"How'd you know that? How'd--?" John started to his feet, craning his neck as if he might be able to see out the window from here. Sherlock looked even more smug. "You hear the car outside? You never can resist showing off, can you...?"

"Well," Sherlock said, with a very slight, tentative smile. "I _am_ a show-off, after all. It's what we do."

John, after a stricken moment of silence, was helpless but to grin back.

Damn straight it was.

Sherlock's deduction, of course, had been spot on. Only a few moments after they'd heard the door open and shut downstairs, Greg appeared, stepping into the flat dressed as if he'd just come in from work. By the time, he was surely still on duty. "John," he started, grinning, "you're here, good," but Sherlock had already straightened up as if electrified.

"Yes, yes, Graham, everyone relevant is assembled. Let's skip the pleasantries, shall we?" He all but vibrated as he stood, a self-contained ball of energy and nerves, smile blossoming. "You need me."

Greg didn't bother to even try to look surprised. Or abashed, for that matter. He shrugged a little, an extremely obvious and graceless affirmation, and Sherlock _beamed._

John, however, was a little bit less than thrilled. "Hang on." He frowned at Sherlock, his arms still around his stomach and each aborted bounce on the balls of his feet symptomatic of the pain he knew he was still in. And not all of it because of John. "Sherlock's still recovering, Greg. I'm not sure a case is the greatest--"

"Oh, I'm _fine!_ " Sherlock spun once with spread apart arms, dressing gown swirling almost like a ballet dancer, and in that moment he honestly did look fine. Wonderful, even. _Happy._ "I feel much better, and for the last time, I'm clean as a whistle. My most likely cause of death at the moment is expiring from boredom, but wonderful Geoff has arrived here with the cure! Haven't you, Geoff?"

With a roll of his eyes, Greg settled back against the wall, playing with where the Belstaff hung just next to him, waiting on a hook. "It's fine," he said, to John, not to Sherlock. "It's just a scene I could use a second pair of eyes at; it'll be safe. But it's a bit of a high-profile case, and we think there was poison involved, too--"

"Poison, John! Poison! I _love_ poison, it's almost always absolutely brilliant--"

"--yeah, yeah," Greg chuckled, grinning, "and it's his area of expertise, really. It's a senior professor of chemistry at Oxford."

Sherlock just about came off the floor as a helium balloon, inflated and euphoric and floating with sheer liquid excitement, and John knew he was gone.

"All right, _all right,"_ he sighed, giving in. Clearly, the cards here were already laid. Sherlock let out a little whoop, clapping his hands and squirming on his feet, and the sight was so ecstatic that even John felt just a little bit lighter. He could never say no to that face. "As long as it's just looking at the scene and talking to witnesses, okay? No running off, or I _will_ put you over my shoulder and drop you back in the cab myself."

Sherlock beamed back at him, already shot towards his coat on the door while even Greg could barely contain his relief-- the return to normalcy was already addictive. "You won't do any such thing," he announced, and tucked his coat around him in a swoop of cotton. "You're bored, too."

"God help me," John agreed, and grinned.

The game, it seemed, was back on.

Greg filled them in on the details on the way down the stairs and then out to the police car on the kerb. Sherlock normally abhorred and refused police cars, but John tugged him inside without allowing protests; there'd be no cab back to catch in the middle of campus, and Sherlock was in no state to go walking it back to a main street. Greg, meanwhile, talked over the grumbles, explaining the details of a professor who'd been found in her office that afternoon, a bullet in her head that their medical team said hadn't been fired until she was already dead. It was right up Sherlock's alley, and John couldn't deny that already felt a bit better, too.

It wasn't just having Sherlock be so excited and alive for the first time in weeks, though the brightness in his eyes was certainly good to see. It had been weeks since the Culverton Smith case, and months since anything before it. It had been _months_ since he'd been on a real case with Sherlock, and he could already feel it would be good for the both of them. Something with chemistry and poisons involved, that they could research and work on from the flat, something small, where John could be sure to go home to Rosie each night and make sure Sherlock was healthy and resting during the day.

Sherlock was right. John was bored. And maybe John wasn't about to start shooting the walls and asking for a nice murder, but... he wasn't exactly going to say no to one, either.

He settled in the seat next to his mad genius, grinning and the knot in his stomach loosened for the first time in a week, and knew that this was going to go well.

"We'll need samples, of course," Sherlock was saying, fingers tapping together, rapid-fire. "Enough so I can start investigating in the flat. There's any number of materials in a standard university chemistry lab that could be used to kill someone, and many ones that won't show on a standard toxicology screen. Though I'll require additional samples from Molly... and _don't_ let your boys defile the scene, Gavin. There may be traces of evidence that will be impossible to restore..."

He ranted on under his breath a mile a minute, switching topics like the wind and his eyes a bright, almost electric blue. Even riding out withdrawal and pain and his own grief, to look at him now, someone who didn't know him wouldn't have any idea there was anything wrong with him save the mark over his eye.

He looked bloody gorgeous.

_And you, John Watson, are hopeless._

"No investigating on your own this time, though. I'm serious, you two," Greg started from the front seat, his eyes on the road. "There are about a dozen reasons why you shouldn't be on this case and-- hang on, text from Donovan..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, barely even listening. "You wouldn't be asking me if you didn't _need_ me. Besides, John is with me. I'll be fine."

He sent John another look, grinning and sure of himself enough to burst, and with so much endless, unquestioning _trust_ in John it was just nearly too much.

This time, he wasn't going to let him down.

"Oh," Greg said again, frowning in the mirror. "Whoops, miscommunication. The victim was a chemistry professor at Cambridge, not Oxford." He shrugged, flipping on his turn signal to change lanes. "Not that it makes a difference to you two."

John shrugged himself. Not really, no. Chemistry was chemistry, no matter the university, and a murder victim was just as dead no matter where they were. "We're fine with either," he agreed, nudging Sherlock's knee. "Yeah?"

He went for his own phone next, because if they were going out on a case, then they might be back an hour or two later than expected. He needed to tell Molly. Or-- no, he needed to make sure Molly was okay with it, and... and if not, he'd head home early himself, and ask Greg to keep an eye on Sherlock. He'd promised to do better by Rosie, too, and that couldn't just be about not drinking himself stupid and sick at night. That meant cases, too, didn't it? That meant not dropping her at the most convenient babysitter to go have fun with Sherlock. He had to take care of Rosie. He couldn't keep just pushing her off onto somebody else whenever he wanted a bit of excitement.

"No," Sherlock said.

John glanced up halfway, still absorbed in his phone. "Hmm? No what?"

"No. No Cambridge."

"...I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't fo--"

"I said no," he said again, voice suddenly low. "I don't take cases at Cambridge."

"What are talking ab--"

"Pull over. Now."

Greg frowned back in the mirror. "What, through three lanes of traffic?"

"Then at the nearest safest opportunity," Sherlock snapped. He'd turned almost feral, growling like a wild and angry street dog, every last trace of humour gone. "I'll take a cab home."

"Sherlock..." John looked back up at him, finally pulled away from his phone by the sting of concern. Whatever excitement and energy there had been in him before had completely evaporated, and he sat in his seat now absolutely still, his jaw clenched and little finger back tapping in his lap. He looked twice as uncomfortable as he'd ever been back in the flat. "Sherlock, what's the matter? You've never said you don't go to Cambridge before."

But Sherlock, far from being softened by the concern, just ground his teeth even harder, the muscles in his neck standing out in sudden stark accord. "Well, I don't. It's a second-rate university, the administration is flimsier than wet paper, and I have no interest in assisting at a case on their campus."

In the front seat, Greg snorted, rolling his eyes back to the road. "You just don't like them because they made you do homework and sit in class."

"Do homework... you went to Cambridge?" John asked. Of course Sherlock had gone to the top schools in the country. "You never mentioned that."

"I don't revisit the past," Sherlock snapped, still without looking at John. "Which is one of the reasons I don't take cases at Cambridge."

Greg smiled at him in the mirror again, though his eyes stayed focused on the road. It was a tolerant smile, a bit like a parent trying to coax a child. "It's only for an hour or two. Come on, you were like a kid in a candy store until you found out it was your old stomping grounds. And weren't you bugging me for a case just the other day?" He shared a quick glance at John before looking back down, his smile settling. "I'll consider it a favor to me, how's that?"

"You don't pay me. All your cases are a favor that you now owe me."

"Then I'll actually repay this one. As long as whatever you want is reasonable-- come on, Sherlock, you two are bored silly. Even John's bored, look at him!"

Sherlock sniffed, his nostrils flaring. He did, in fact, look at John, but it was a barely a flicker out of the corner of his eye, his jaw still clenched. He remained utterly annoyed with it all, not actually distressed but just _angry,_ as if he was one wrong word away from just opening the door himself right in the middle of traffic. He'd been uncomfortable when talking about the assault, and he'd approaching upset when they'd turned to Mary. This? This was neither of those things. Sherlock wasn't distressed. This Sherlock was merely annoyed.

John paused a moment, and chose his words very carefully.

"I do think it'd be good for you. For us, I mean," he corrected, because the last reason Sherlock would take this case would be because it was _good for him._ "You know, show the public that you're up and running again, taking cases after everything that happened with Culverton Smith. As long as you start out slow-- you're not really up for doing much more than taking a look at the scene." He paused, still gently trying to coax him forwards. It felt a little like he was trying to cajole a wild horse with a carrot. "And Greg's right. We were both getting pretty bored, locked up in the flat... god, we were actually talking about our _feelings,_ Sherlock. I mean, come on. Anymore of that and we'd both lose it."

Once again, the genius huffed, his piercing eyes shifted to glare out the window. "If I recall correctly, that conversation was started by you." He folded his arms even tighter, still refusing to look at either of them. Once again, his little finger started scratching angrily in the crook of his arm.

It actually wasn't all that unusual. Sherlock could be very picky about the cases and clients he took on, turning them down for the stunningly superficial and hilariously insignificant (John's favorite remained the deadpan _your scarf is hideous. Get out._ ) Sometimes he did need to be nagged into it just to get off the sofa, but he really did think this would be good for him. Something to keep his brain occupied, and prove to the tabloids that the game was back on, to get the private clients trickling in again. Hell, something to be between him and John that wasn't Mary and the morgue and Sherlock's relapse.

It'd be good for him. It'd be good for both of them.

As long as he actually agreed to go on the case.

As if he could read his mind, Sherlock slumped just a little more in his seat, still frowning out the window and his mouth slipping into even more of a pout. "All right," he muttered, almost outright sulking. "I'll give the scene a look."

Greg grinned back in the mirror, and John relaxed next to him, breathing easier once again. "There's a good man!" he said, patting Sherlock on the arm. "Come on-- let's go solve a murder."

Sherlock's lips twitched, and he nodded stiffly once, keeping his mouth shut. A moment later he started to bite at his nails, picking like he wished he could stick a cigarette in there instead.

John rolled his eyes back, grinned, and tried very hard to ignore the tiny knot of misgivings still sitting in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> The first nine chapters are almost entirely complete, and the last one is fully outlined, so currently, I plan for updates to come every few days. I promise I'll never leave you hanging for too long on a painful cliffhanger ;)
> 
> [Come check out additional commentary for this fic on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/627527186417647616/this-time-my-rantings-on-the-morgue-scene-i-know)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments/kudos!!!
> 
> And now, we get to Ranowa's grudge against upper academia and one of the original inspirations for the fic transparently beginning to play itself out...

_**1998** _

Sherlock settled himself on the cold floor next to the lab table, so low down he'd just about made himself fit underneath it. He squirmed down as securely as he could, making a nest right there into the corner with his jacket and backpack and very, very sore face. Head still down, he swallowed what would've been one very painful yawn, and dove a hand into the lab fridge, digging down into the very bottom with a flannel to grab a carefully selected handful of ice.

Then, he jammed the flannel hard between his cheek and his shoulder, kicked the fridge shut, and set about making himself as comfortable on the floor as he could.

His face hurt. The centrifuge whirred over his head, ticking away the seconds with each rhythmic turn, establishing a pattern against the thunk of the old air conditioner. The door swinging open and shut down the hall. The footsteps on the floor above him, the steady pacing that guaranteed it to be a late night class.

He tucked a notebook into his lap, and started to read.

It was one of Victor's old lab notebooks. The graduate student that had shown him around in the spring, and vanished before Sherlock had matriculated. He wasn't sure what had happened to Victor, whether he'd graduated or not, but what was important was that he wasn't here anymore. His notebooks and data, however, were.

The data he'd found so far was surprisingly good. A few holes, here and there, but much higher quality than he'd expected, from the exhausted idiot that had shepherded him around last spring. He didn't know why he'd been so disliked, really; the data was higher quality than a lot of what he'd turned up around here.

Well, perhaps that was the answer.

Sherlock was no stranger to intellectual superiority being a target for disdain.

There were more footsteps down the corridor. He rolled his eyes, sandwiching the dripping flannel more securely under his cheek, and buried back into Victor's notebook.

Dr. Wilson emerged around the frame of the door, bag slung over his shoulder and clearly on his way out for the night. He stopped by to flick the lights off, offering Sherlock a perfunctory, tired smile, and kept on walking.

Then he double backed to swing back around the open doorway, and looked down at him in wide-eyed shock.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"...Nothing's wrong?"

"Well--" Dr. Wilson stepped decisively closer, planting himself inside and looking down at Sherlock with eyes that he couldn't interpret. "For starter's, you're sitting on the floor, and you're holding ice on your face, Sherlock. Come on, let's get you up."

He tried to squirm backwards, not because he was more comfortable on the floor (though he was), but he had no data for how to proceed. This had never happened to him before. He didn't know what he was supposed to say as Dr. Wilson lifted him up by the elbows, sitting him down on the nearest lab stool and Victor's notebook left sprawling on the floor. He held the ice pack in place and peered into his eyes and stood very close and Sherlock didn't like it, not _this sort_ of attention. It meant a spotlight being put on him but he didn't know what he was supposed to perform.

"There we go," Dr. Wilson said again, squeezing the flannel of ice. "How'd this happen? You look as if you had a bad run-in with a door."

Sherlock frowned. "Only an idiot would walk into a door." His professor pulled the ice back a bit to get a better look, a severe grimace settled onto his face. "It was a junior getting out of class. Sebastian. I ran into him and deduced his girlfriend was cheating on him. She was wearing a pink jumper."

"That _thing_ you do, hmm?"

"It's not a _thing._ It's observation." He glanced away and bit his swelling lower lip, trying not to pout. "I don't know why it annoys people. I'd want to know, if it were me."

"Yeah? And maybe that's why people don't like you. Come on, budge over a bit." He nudged Sherlock just a little further down, so he could hitch a leg onto the table and settle an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Sebastian... Sebastian Wilkes? At the chemistry building?"

Sherlock gave an uninterested shrug, still staring at his feet. What did it matter? He'd been hit before. Nobody had ever asked why or who. He didn't care about getting retribution or protection or... whatever it was the incompetent administration would promise. He just wanted to be left alone. "I suppose. Dr. W--"

"Oscar, Sherlock, I've told you. Oscar!" He squeezed his shoulder, then again touched the mark on Sherlock's face. He was very, very close, and his hand was warm, and his eyes were just-- right _there._ "Yes," he murmured, with a satisfactory nod. "You'll be fine."

"Yes. Obviously."

Dr. Wilson-- _Oscar--_ sighed again. He looked down at him for a moment, his smile faded again, this time... displeased. Displeased? At him. Yes. He'd done something wrong, again.

"That's what I just said about people not liking you, Sherlock."

Once again, Sherlock wasn't sure what to answer that with but a simple shrug. He knew people didn't like him. He wasn't here for people to like him.

He told the truth. Why was it his problem, if _people_ didn't like that?

It wasn't.

He didn't care.

Another few moments passed in silence. Oscar continued to touch his face, both his hands and the ice. It alternately stung and helped, actually, and Sherlock no longer minded it quite so much when Oscar squeezed his shoulder again.

"Actually," he went on quietly, when it had been quiet for almost a minute. "I was asking because Sebastian Wilkes is one of my students. Inorganic chem. It's a big class, so I've never really gotten to know him, but between you and me? I don't think he's my favorite student."

Sherlock shrugged easily, looking away. "I imagine not. He's a finances student who only signed up for the course on a dare that he wouldn't be able to pass. He should've gone for organic-- much easier."

Oscar laughed. He laughed out loud, so suddenly and so loudly that Sherlock flinched back. Usually, when people laughed, it was at him, and it was only the beginning of something much worse. But all Oscar did was finally, _finally_ let go of Sherlock's face, stood back to shake his head and laugh and look bewildered and amused and surprised. At first Sherlock thought he was being laughed at, but Oscar only squeezed his shoulder again, still beaming. "You're just about the only student I've ever heard say they like _organic._ You're incredible, Sherlock, you know that? Absolutely incredible!" He crouched down for a moment, looking him in the eye again very closely, and smiled. "You know? I've got a suggestion for you."

Sherlock squeezed the ice pack against his face again, still frowning. "Sir?"

"Oscar."

"...Oscar."

"There we go," he said, and smiled again. "What would you think about teaching that class for me, next term? Sebastian's?"

 _Teaching?_ Sherlock frowned, his attention already sliding away as he tried to work Victor's notebook closer with his foot. He had no interest in teaching. He was here for the research opportunity, and not anything else. "Aren't only graduate students allowed to teach courses?" He ducked down to the floor, scooping up the notebook and letting the icepack plop to the table in the same breath. "I've not even taken inorganic yet myself, s... Oscar."

"Yes, but that doesn't matter to you, does it? You're brilliant. You probably know it better than everyone taking the course right now. Yeah?" Oscar's hand trailed along his shoulder again, moving from its usual position to cup the side of his neck instead. "It is usually a position for graduate students, yes, but we make exceptions, sometimes. And you're special, Sherlock. I just want to make sure that you're treated with with the attention that someone as special as you deserves."

Sherlock, midway through yet another protest, blinked.

Special?

_Special?_

He had never been called special before-- not once in a voice like that. Freak, faggot, queer, psychopath, weirdo, machine. And, yes, _special._ His old teachers, when discussing what to do with him, what class (or closet) to put him where he wouldn't be _disruptive._ The school-mandated psychiatrist, when trying to place a label down on just what exactly was wrong with him. He hadn't been very successful.

But he had never been called special like _this_ before. With the man smiling at him, renowned and respected expert in his field, offering him privileges and recognition and praise, and telling him he was _smart._

"Special?" he started, a new warmth and delight unfolding in his chest with pride, right along next to a solid sense of disbelief. _"Me?"_

"Yes! Of course!" He stepped even closer, so close that the hard edge of the table dug into Sherlock's back, and one hand patted his hair, like he was a fragile, precious thing. "Surely you know that, Sherlock. I think you're the most special student I've ever had."

"I..."

But-- he wasn't. Surely. He was good at labwork, and he knew it, but the rest... he knew he wasn't good at it. He had been told many times that he wasn't before and he knew he was deficient in too many areas to count. He was not _special,_ he was... was...

What was Oscar doing?

He was standing even closer, now. His arms braced on either side of Sherlock, standing tall over him, looking down at him and touching his hair with that same encouraging smile. Nobody had ever stood this close to Sherlock and looked at him like this. He reached for data and hit a blank file, and then another blank file, and then a whole cabinet of completely empty files. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to react?

Oscar pressed his mouth against Sherlock's. Very quickly, very gently, his tongue just brushing against Sherlock's stunned lips. Then he stood back again, and cuffed his ear with the most affectionate smile he'd ever been given.

"Oh, don't look like that, Sherlock," he chided, and patted his arm again. "It's all right. I wouldn't do this with just anyone, you know? I told you-- you're special."

"I--. Sir."

He nodded warmly, but it wasn't until he'd stepped back an inch and withdrew from his face that Sherlock could breathe again.

Oscar kissed him again, even quicker than before, and then pulled back with a quick caress of his bruised cheek. He headed back for the door with one last affectionate nod back over his shoulder, looking utterly and completely content. "I'll get that syllabus to you for my class, Sherlock. See you tomorrow!"

He left Sherlock sitting there alone in the lab, icepack dripping and forgotten in his hand. His mouth felt cold and wet, and his head felt a little like a box of marbles that had just been rattled within an inch of its life. But inside his chest, he only felt light.

_Special._

* * *

_**Present** _

* * *

They pulled up to Cambridge with a very quiet Sherlock in tow. John and Greg were left to make casual conversation on the way, while the genius man of the hour just sat there next to John, taking up space and not much else. He occupied his time with glaring silently straight out the window, and ignoring the rest of existence.

It was just Sherlock being Sherlock, John told himself. That was all. He'd seen Sherlock like this before after all, hadn't he? He could sulk when he didn't get exactly his way, and pout out the window like a child. It didn't mean something was wrong.

So John did his best to stay calm, and he let Sherlock sit silently in the seat next to him, arms folded and his stubbly, rough face cold and all but shut down, and ignoring the both of them as if his life depended on it.

When they got to Cambridge, he was shot out of the car before Greg had even turned the engine off, and on his way to march inside.

"Well, someone's eager again," John murmured, trying to share a grin with Greg. It wasn't all that easy to smile. He jogged to follow after Sherlock's long stride, barely catching up just in time to trail him into the building. "Guess you decided it was worth your time after all?"

Sherlock huffed and did not look at him. "Nonsense." He poked the button for the lift, hard, like he was trying to stab it straight through. "I intend to spend as little time here as possible. If anything, you must get home to Watson."

Well, he certainly looked no more excited than he'd been in the car. If anything, he was just impatient, now, glaring daggers as the floors display ticked up and and the lift groaned around them. John raised an eyebrow at the chipped paint and nudged Sherlock, again trying to just prod him out of his funk. "Would've thought Cambridge would look a little nicer on the inside."

Sherlock actually looked disgusted, at that. Yet another brief eye roll and he scoffed, this time a noise of sheer derision. "Their funding goes towards supercilious _modern art_ sculptures to adorn the grounds with and executive bonuses. Perish the thought immediately that they actually care about their students." He tsked his tongue again, glaring between the floors display and his watch. "As if it would _kill them_ to install a lift made in this bloody century..."

John smiled back, the acerbic jab again putting him at ease. Sherlock was fine. Annoyed, sulky, exasperated, yes-- and fine.

The lift _dinged_ onto the correct floor, and John was already three steps out before he realised that he wasn't being followed.

"Sherlock?" He started back, eyes widening in surprise. His friend had once again gone motionless. Like he'd been in the car-- his face wiped clean and his eyes vacant, like he'd just... shut down. Just for a moment, but it was there. It was the look for when he'd fallen down somewhere into his mind palace and tuned out the rest of the world entirely, which was certainly something Sherlock did, but... not often like this.

John frowned. "Hey, Sherlock?" He prodded at his arm a little, just a gentle tug at his sleeve to try and draw him out of it. "We're here?"

At first, he thought Sherlock had just zoned out-- it wasn't exactly uncommon with him-- and needed just a snap to be pulled back into the room. But the first tug accomplished nothing, and when John did it again, it was like he'd struck him. He reeled back on the balls of his feet, breathing in a stuttery, unsettled wheeze, coming back online with the look of someone who didn't realise he'd ever gone off. "I..."

Maybe his reluctance about this case was a little more severe than he'd first thought.

"...Hey. Sherlock." God, but carrying this conversation out while in a crowded corridor of a crime scene and holding the lift doors open wasn't exactly a good idea, but they didn't exactly have an alternative, and his concern was well and truly awoken now. "Listen, if you really don't want to take this case--"

Sherlock blinked again, this time like he was coming alive rather than online, then scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." He swept past him with his coat flaring at his heels, eyes bright again and hard like glass, so quickly that John had to scramble to keep up. And that was that. The conversation was done.

The crime scene was was an office near the end of the corridor, where the professor had been discovered shot dead and bleeding by one of his graduate students. It was cramped and crowded, too crowded for even Sherlock to bulldoze his way through, and John ended up waiting in the corridor with an increasingly sulky genius consulting detective as they waited for the forensics team to slowly file their way out. By the look on his face, anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way had a solid chance at winding up with a knife in the back.

"Sherlock? Sherlock _Holmes?_ Is that you?"

And speaking of anyone who'd so much as look at him the wrong way...

John turned back just in time to catch Sherlock's face settling into another cross between exasperation and disgust. One of the ogling university staff had taken notice of them. Before, he'd been lingering at the crime scene tape, trying to see what was going on over the heads of the forensic techs, but now he'd noticed Sherlock. Another professor, by the looks of him, and staring at Sherlock in very ill-disguised surprise.

His friend lifted his chin with a haughty sniff. "Dr. Andrews." He started tapping his little finger again, scratching it hard in the crook of his elbow.

Dr. Andrews squirmed a step closer through the crowded hallway, no eyes for John at all and instead looking Sherlock up and down with a bright, broadening smile. "I certainly never thought I'd see you here again. How have you been, Sherlock?"

Polite enough, John thought. Certainly more pleased to see him than most of Sherlock's old associates tended to be.

Somehow, he wasn't exactly surprised when Sherlock's answer was simply to look at his hand with nothing less than outright disgust. "Well," he sneered, "the universe does love to make fools of us all. Some of us... more than others."

Dr. Andrews' greeting smile faded as quickly as it had come, and its replacement was an exasperation that John already found much more familiar.

"Just as sociable as before, I see." The professor lowered his hand, again looking Sherlock up and down, and this time even flicking his eyes to John for good measure. "So you're here on that little detective thing that you do, then? I've seen you in the news about that. It's very... quaint." He paused, observing the both of them with a very uppity, public school air. "I'm glad that you found something you were good at."

John decided, very quickly, that he didn't much like Dr. Andrews.

He also decided he would very gladly look the other way if Sherlock took the opportunity to trip him on his way into the office.

"Well," Sherlock said, through a smile that was every bit as shiny plastic as Andrews'. "If you'll excuse me, it seems that my expertise is needed. I'm sure you're unfamiliar with the feeling. Run along, now-- mock a student or two." His smile slid even more into a sneer, and he strode straight past, so brusquely the weight of his shoulder nearly bore Andrews right into the wall. "That would be _your_ area of expertise, isn't it?"

Yes. John _really_ didn't like Dr. Andrews.

Sherlock bullied his way straight into the office without another word, leaving Dr. Andrews, looking particularly insulted, behind. And John probably should've followed him. Sherlock could look after himself, after all, and certainly didn't need John to tell people off behind his back, people that he didn't even care about in the slightest, for comments that Sherlock had brushed off without the faintest pause. What Sherlock actually needed from him now was to head into the crime scene himself, so he could take a look at the body, and give a proper medical consult.

He also so happened to not be in a particularly forgiving mood. And maybe he couldn't take back Mary's DVD, and maybe he couldn't take back what he'd done to him in that morgue, and said in that letter. But he could, at least, do something about Dr. Andrews: smug little shit, and probable reason why Sherlock had been so reluctant to come here today.

"That one," Dr. Andrews sighed, shaking his head. "Never could quite manage a polite conversation." He turned fully to John, holding out his hand again. "And that'd make you Dr. Watson, then? I've seen you in the news, too."

 _If you know who I am, then you should know to stop looking at me like that._ "That's right." John did shake his hand, but only just, and maybe he wasn't quite capable of Sherlock's ice cold and murderous smile, so he just went for his own best attempt instead. He wasn't a six foot tall not-a-sociopath, but he was just as capable of laying someone flat. "You have anything else you'd like to say about my partner?"

Colleague. Friend. Best man. Partner? _Whatever._

Dr. Andrews blinked, his turn around back to welcoming instantly put back on ice. Clearly, he had expected to find some sort of camaraderie, in dealing with the eccentric and impolite Sherlock Holmes. Equally as clear was that he wasn't used to being stood up to. "Oh-- no, it's not like that. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," he assured, and had the bloody gall to _smile._ "I truly didn't mean any offense."

"That's very nice. Because I'm pretty sure what you said to him was offensive, whether you meant it or not."

Now looking a bit haughty himself, Dr. Andrews tugged on his tie, tightening the knot. "Then... I apologise for the slight." It didn't sound like all that genuine an apology. He started another step back, clearly not in the mood to stand here and be insulted by anyone that wasn't Sherlock. "I hope--"

"John!" Sherlock bustled straight back out of the office, a bundle of flaring Belstaff as he again all but shouldered straight past the both of them, his hair wild and almost bouncing and his eyes glacier. "We're leaving!"

What? He'd barely even been in there a minute! "Sherlock--"

"Nothing for us to do until preliminary blood test results are back. Come on!"

"But we came all the way out here! Hey, Sherlock, get--"

But Sherlock was already gone. Just like that-- stalked back off down the hallway to start stabbing the button for the lift again. And that was that. They'd barely been at Cambridge for ten minutes, after the bloody hour it had taken to get out here, and that was the end of the case.

John was almost flabbergasted. Sherlock hadn't been thrilled about taking this case, sure, but he'd never seen him refuse to so much as look at a _crime scene_ before. He'd been eager to get into the scene, actually, wanting to get straight to work, until--

Until this Dr. Andrews had showed up, and started oozing his slime all over the corridor.

"Well, then," Dr. Andrews sniffed, looking a little off put. He again straightened his tie and glanced down the corridor after Sherlock, who was already now talking with someone else while he waited for the lift. Another professor-- another Dr. Slug in a Suit, as far as John was concerned. "Best of luck, to the both of you?"

John ground his teeth again. The anger in his stomach was so familiar it was almost comforting. Righteous, this time, a righteous, protective anger, at someone who deserved it, at someone who he could punch in the face and _not_ hate himself for it tomorrow.

He forced his fist to unfurl, and shook his hand instead.

"You'll leave Sherlock alone, then?" He grinned back, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Because he really didn't want to come here today, and at first I didn't know why. But now, I'm going to hazard a guess it was you."

Andrews' eyes narrowed. "Me."

"That's right," John said evenly back. "It's been how many years, since he was a student here? Fifteen years? And yet when you heard we'd be on campus today, your first instinct was still to run off up here to try and mock him."

Andrews' mouth curled. "I see he really hasn't changed after all," he snipped, with another sharp tug on his jacket. "Still needs big brother to sweep up after him behind his back after barely bothering to show up. You have a good day, Dr. Watson. And my condolences."

If they hadn't been in such a public corridor, then John would've said _sod anger management,_ right then and there, and ended this.

Instead, he watched his back retreat down the other direction, and bit so hard on the inside of his cheek he nearly cut himself.

They shouldn't have come out on this case at all.

At the other end of the corridor, Sherlock was still waiting for the lift again, and speaking with the other professor. John was on edge again immediately, starting to pick up the pace, but at least he did not seem hostile with this man-- far from it. In fact, as John watched, Sherlock accepted his outstretched hand for a handshake and even smiled a little, and the other man passed a business card into Sherlock's grip.

"...been good seeing you, Sherlock," he was saying, just as John made it within earshot. "Consider it? I'd love to catch up."

Sherlock inclined his head, his pale face unreadable. "Yes, Oscar," he murmured. And then this man, this _Oscar,_ to John's absolute astonishment-- leaned in, and _hugged him._

John's brain flipped the _off_ switch.

It was over as soon as it had started. Just a quick, light hug between old friends, and then Oscar stepped back, giving the both of them a parting, perfectly smile. "Lovely to see you again," he said again, and then he was off-- hurrying off on his way just as quickly as Sherlock had left John with Dr. Andrews.

"...Who was _that?"_ John squinted after him, still in complete shock. "A _friend_ of Dr. Andrews'?"

Sherlock said nothing. Sherlock did nothing. Sherlock stood there, staring with hard almost glazed eyes at the lift, the line of his back perfectly straight and his features as if carved from marble. He stood there and stared and was so very still it was as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. And not for the first time today. Not even for the first time since they'd come to this bloody school.

The unease that had been stirred up by Dr. Andrews started to move back in.

"...Sherlock?"

Another second passed. Two. Three.

Once again, this was hardly the first time that he had seen his best friend zone out like this, even standing in the middle of a corridor. John frowned, glancing again after where Oscar and Dr. Andrews had disappeared, but both of them were gone, and Sherlock was still just standing there, now blocking the way, like a soulless mannequin.

But the more often that it happened, the more worried John became.

They shouldn't have come here.

"Sherlock," he called again, a little more demanding this time. He touched his arm, tugging on a fistful of Belstaff. "You okay?"

It took a moment longer still, but then Sherlock breathed in, and with it, a flicker of light filled back into his eyes. Once again, John's touch on his arm was all that it took to breathe life back into him, and once again, it came as simply and easily as a flicker of light in his eyes. He blinked once, gaze flickering up and down John and then away again, lightning quick, and the line of his mouth flattened.

"Ah," he said, vaguely, like he was responding to someone who wasn't even there. "Quite right." He cleared his throat, hands buried down into his pockets, and swept past him straight into the lift. "To Baker Street, then? Come quickly, John; we have much to do!"

"...Right."

They didn't, really. They had nothing to do. Because the crime scene was back there, and yet Sherlock was down here, insisting that they leave. Insisting that there was nothing for them to do until Molly finished the first blood tests, which wouldn't be for hours or days. There was nothing for them to do at Baker Street, and no discernible reason why Sherlock was back in the lift barely five minutes after John had had to prod him out of it.

John nodded back without protest, unease in his throat, and followed Sherlock without another word.

Oscar's business card, he noted, was slipped silently into Sherlock's deep pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> The first eight chapters are now entirely completely, and the last two are in the editing stage. Everything's looking good... and get ready for when things start to kick up in a few chapters ;)
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! I think I got to them all, but if not and I missed someone, my sincere apologies <3
> 
> Onwards!!!

_**1998** _

"Mummy asked that I check up on you, of course. She worries."

"She always worries. Since when have you listened?"

"Humor me, brother dear. It is your first time on your own. She only wants to know that you are adjusting."

"I've got a better question for you, then: since when have you _cared?_ Piss off."

"..."

"What is it? I can hear you thinking. It's annoying."

"It's nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure. Tell me, how are your st--"

"What _is it?_ "

"..."

"..."

"Did you know that Victor Trevor is currently an unemployed drug addict, after dropping out of Cambridge last spring? Just a month before he was meant to graduate, as a matter of fact. His PI was the same that you have chosen to be your mentor. Dr. Oscar Wilson."

"Victor Trevor was an idiot. I met him."

"Did you know that Victor Trevor isn't Dr. Wilson's only former student to have such a long fall from grace? Or the only one to drop out of school?"

"Who asked you? Does _Mummy_ know you're pulling background checks on everyone in my life? I wonder if your _boss_ knows that's how you spend your time."

"..."

"For god's sake, what now. What is it, Mycroft?!"

"..."

"What do you _want?!"_

"Why did you meet Dr. Wilson at his flat two nights ago?"

"...What?"

"This was not the first instance of such a meeting, might I add."

"Have you... have you been _spying on me?"_

"Answer the question. Such a meeting is neither appropriate nor acceptable. Were you--"

"It's none of your business why I was there! Maybe he just _likes me,_ did you ever think of that?! Is that so strange, that someone would like me?! A _friend,_ Mycroft; you've never had one of those, isn't that so? No one wants to be friends with a fat, interfering, know-it-all like you, so of course you wouldn't understand what that's like!"

"There is nothing remotely normal about what is going on h--"

"Right. Because you'd know so much about what looks _normal,_ wouldn't you?!"

"Sherlock."

"Leave me alone. Call off your boys and _leave me alone_ , or I'll tell Mummy which one of us _really_ set fire to her study, and I'll tell your boss _exactly_ what you're using all those fancy new resources of his and tax dollars for, and I'll make such an unholy scene down at your office about it that you'll never be able to keep it quiet. _Everyone will know_ about your vile freak of a brother and good luck holding onto your reputation then."

"Sherlock, if you insist on continuing this charade--"

"Stay _out of my life,_ you cunt."

_Click._

"I hope you know what you're doing, little brother."

* * *

_**Present** _

* * *

It was going to be simple, John thought.

He'd just let it go. Yes? If Sherlock wanted to talk about his university days, and Dr. Andrews, and the professor that he'd hugged, then he would. If he didn't, then he wouldn't. It wasn't John's business to try and drag it out of him. A few years ago, before relapses and a wedding and a fake suicide, John might've demanded it out of him, but this wasn't a few years ago. He didn't have that right anymore, but that wasn't important. He didn't need to interrogate Sherlock about events that had happened decades ago, he just needed to not fuck it up now.

In his mind, that meant calling for takeaway, giving Rosie a kiss goodbye, and swinging over for his shift with food in his lap and ready to give Sherlock a distraction.

Then John actually got into the flat, and found his plans with a wrench thrown straight into them.

Sherlock was balled up on the sofa, huddled underneath blankets with his back to the room and his face stuffed into a pillow. John stepped into the flat to relieve Mrs. Hudson, and found their landlady waiting for him in Sherlock's chair, a magazine in her hands and slowly draining a cup of tea. She shook her head sadly at John, plainly unhappy, and John's spirits dropped as soon as he'd gotten them up.

"You okay?" he asked Sherlock, setting the takeaway in the nearest chair. He shouldn't have been lying on his side like that, not with his ribs. "Sherlock?"

The bundle grumbled to himself, still curled. "I'm fine." He buried his head deeper into his pillow, earning another frown from John at his sides and the breaks underneath his pajamas. Pajamas again, rather than the dress shirt and trousers from before. "I'm fine. I feel sick."

"Those are two mutually exclusive statements, actually." John reached out and felt his cheek, but the skin was cool. "Do you mean you feel nauseated?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you're going to be sick?"

 _"No._ " Sherlock shifted, rolling his long, lean leg a little. "Not unless you force me to eat something."

"Well, you can't starve yourself, Sherlock." Nevertheless, John was now glad that the takeaway he'd gotten was sandwiches. Something that would keep in Sherlock's fridge for at least a day or two, and that Mrs. Hudson could get out for him when he felt a bit better.

 _It's okay,_ he told himself, willing the concern to settle. Setbacks were normal. Bad days were expected. They just had to get back on track. "Come on, onto your back, sit up a little. You know the drill."

Sherlock unleashed another stream of unholy grumbling into the pillow, but he conceded with John's instruction easily enough, stretching around and out of his ball. He breathed a little bit deeper when his torso had the support, the strain in his jaw easing, but of course made no comment on it. John, well aware of just exactly _why_ Sherlock would be in pain when balled upon the sofa, made no comment either.

Instead, he simply said, "Nausea's normal, even at this stage. How long has it been?"

Sherlock shrugged, still avoiding John's gaze. He folded his arms to glower across the room, both as if something over in the kitchen had personally offended him and John did not even exist. "A few days."

"...well, I'm not sure how normal _that_ is, at this stage. Maybe you're coming down with something." John started to withdraw and then stopped, going over Sherlock's words in his head. "Would that be since we took the Cambridge case, then?"

"Yes."

John frowned.

So maybe he did need to talk to Sherlock about Dr. Andrews after all.

He went back to the kitchen, going after the stock of ginger ale while deciding what to say. Sherlock had probably already consumed copious amounts of it, but there was no harm in trying-- or, John considered, perhaps he'd not had any at all. For Mrs. Hudson to give him some, he'd have had to do more than grumble at her. Instead, there was only an almost entirely untouched cup of cold tea by his side.

John was still deciding on the best way to get started on what he wanted to say, when Sherlock made the choice for him.

"John?" He drank a very small, careful sip, not quite looking at him. Then he did it again, even when John came to a stop beside him and waited, silent, for what was to come. "You said... that is. I mean." Sherlock took another breath, his eyes flickering shut. "Romantic entanglement. Does that... make people happy? Ordinary people?"

His stomach dropped a notch out from underneath his feet.

Or maybe this wasn't about Dr. Andrews after all.

"I..."

Shit. _Shit._ How many things did he have to apologise for? How many ways was he going to keep on _messing this up_ when it mattered the most?

"I didn't-- shouldn't have said that. I..." John dropped almost numbly into the nearest chair, suddenly unable to look at Sherlock. He hated seeing him like this. He hated wanting to erase every single thing he'd done in the past so many months but he couldn't and Sherlock sat there as incontrovertible evidence of them _all._ "I'm... sorry. You're not--"

"I didn't ask for whatever this is. I just asked if it makes ordinary people happy."

 _But you don't care about ordinary,_ John thought, miserable. _You wouldn't be asking it at all if I hadn't said that to you._

But it was too late. The seed had been planted, and now Sherlock was sitting there, looking downtrodden and bruised and thoroughly unhappy, and asking him about romantic entanglement and ordinary and... happiness.

_You wouldn't be asking this if you were happy. Would you, Sherlock?_

John stared back down at his hands, this time in no small effort to stop himself from looking at Sherlock's lips instead. This wasn't exactly something he wanted to ever discuss with Sherlock, and for reasons that he could never tell him.

"I think it's supposed to," he said finally. "I think it does, when you find the right person."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over him, piercing and bright. He started to say something then stopped, clenching his jaw in silence.

"What?"

Sherlock still said nothing.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John waited another moment; now, Sherlock wasn't the only one sick to his stomach. Since when had Sherlock felt he had to hold his tongue around him? Around _anyone?_ "You can tell me."

He remained quiet at first, still looking anywhere but at John. Another moment passed and he wound his fingers together very tightly, as if to keep them still. "If you'll forgive me for possibly overstepping again. But... you did not seem to be very happy with Mary. Even before the shooting."

"Well, she wasn't the right person for me."

Sherlock stiffened. Open surprise flickered across his face before he controlled it again, beating it back into submission, but John just stared back and let the words settle. Mary: not the right person for him. There. He'd said it. He'd finally said it out loud and admitted it for the very first time.

No. The sort of woman who could shoot his best friend in the heart, threaten him while still in his hospital bed, and then pull a gun on him again when all he was asking for was the truth, was not the right person for him.

They'd probably all have been a lot happier if he'd come to that conclusion before Sherlock had ever even been discharged.

But letting that topic continue opened up the possibility for it to turn down some very dangerous avenues, such as _then who's the right person for you?_ and it was just safest to change course, _right now._

"Look," John said. And he did so himself-- he looked at Sherlock, and held his gaze, and didn't let himself look away. "It was a stupid thing to say. Of course you don't need a bloody girlfriend to be happy. I only meant that, if you... if you actually _wanted_ something, with-- Irene Adler, then--"

But Sherlock abruptly groaned, very loudly, like John had just prodded him right in the bruised chest. "Oh, _god!"_ He threw his head back and groaned again, covering his face with his hand, and suddenly there was a hole in the dam. "John. For the last time: _Irene Adler_ is _gay._ "

"Well... yes. But before, you and her--"

"And even if she wasn't," Sherlock snapped, "because it somehow seems to have escaped your impeccable powers of observation despite it being so obvious that even _Lestrade_ picked up on it years ago-- I _am."_

John's words stumbled to a dead halt.

Seconds ticked by. Sherlock sat there looked aggravated and aggrieved as ever, his jaw twitching and his finger twitching with it, and John just stared at him. A bomb might as well have gone off. In the flat, from Sherlock's mouth, inside John's own head.

"You're..."

"Gay, yes," Sherlock said flatly. "Ho-mo- _sexual_. Sexually attracted to other men. Not interested in Irene Adler, or women in general, in any romantic or sexual manner. G-A-Y. _Gay._ How else would you like me to define it for you?"

It took several more seconds after that, for John to finally haul the _off_ switch back to _on_ in his brain and rediscover his voice.

"But. I thought." He sat up straighter, gaping across the room. "You and Irene-- and _Janine!_ I thought--"

"I have already told you that Janine made up all those stories for the press, mostly to justly pay me back for my deception. No, I never made anyone _wear the bloody hat,_ and in return for not saying as such to the public, I get to use her cottage in Sussex whenever she's not there." He leaned his head back again and massaged deeply at the bridge of his nose, like trying to rub away a building headache. "And for the last time, just because The Woman slept in my bed doesn't mean I slept in hers."

John sat back himself; his head was spinning. No Janine. No Irene. No beautiful, clever, strong-willed dominatrix with sharp eyeliner and red lips that would whip Sherlock across the face and make him beg for mercy right there on the desk. Twice. _Just texting._

It felt like a decade long hiatus and break in conversation, and only now was John finally surfacing on the other side. _Girlfriend, no, not really my area. So you've got a boyfriend, then?_ Oh, take a break for a couple years, that was normal, jump off a few rooftops, have a botched marriage, a few attempted murders-- _Yes, John. I'm_ _ **gay.**_

"I'm... sorry," he finally stumbled out, looking back at Sherlock. "I mean, it's fine, of course, it's all fine. You know that. But I just always thought... well, to tell you the truth, until The Woman came along, I thought you were--"

"What?" Sherlock said suddenly. He hauled his head up off the sofa to laser focus on John. "You thought I was what?"

"...I don't know." He swallowed again. Suddenly, it felt like he was back on very thin ice. "I thought you weren't interested in anybody."

But this, evidently, was not the right thing to say. "Why? Why would you assume I was asexual? Because I'm strange, odd, _freakish?_ Because people don't like me?" He jerked up even straighter now, fired up and going a mile a minute, his eyes burning as he spit the words out in a blind fury. "Sexuality is not a personality quirk, John, it is a very simple, biological fact, and just because it is something that _normal_ people do and I am not normal does not mean I am immune to it. A premise I didn't think I would have to explain to you, given that you are both a doctor and someone who has repeatably tried to impress upon me that I am not a machine, but, well, here we are. I am just as human as you and just as unable to stamp out the urges of the transport as anyone else."

John had no idea what to say.

After his little speech, Sherlock simply sat there in perfect silence, long limbs draped all over the sofa and his features hard again, as if carved from a block of stone. He glared across the room and not at John, anger brimming in his eyes, but there was something underneath it. Something that John didn't quite understand, but he could at least translate as hurt. Hurt. John's assumption about his sexuality, his apparently incredibly off-base assumption, had hurt him.

Except, just in all that he'd said just now, he could tell that maybe it wasn't entirely John. Maybe it wasn't him at all. It sounded like a lifetime of expectation and assumption, and many probably much more cruel and ill-meaning than his. But even if there were as a whole host of others to blame for it, none of them were here. The only person here was John, and Sherlock across from him, draped over the sofa and glowering into space. The fervor of it had cooled, but the bristling stab wound of defensive hostility was still there underneath it. Much too late to stitch it, but maybe he could still attend to the scar.

"I'm sorry," John landed on finally, his voice low, as neutral as he could. "Of course you can... have feelings like that. I didn't mean to imply otherwise. I'd just never see you be interested in anyone at all until Irene Adler, and then never anyone else after her, and I... assumed. I'm sorry."

Sherlock watched him a moment longer, his eyes ice-cold and his face still twisted, almost alien in its new anger. He stared at John in the pressing silence until John's stomach was twisted and knotted and he felt sick at heart, and so _sorry_ he could apologise until he was blue in the face and it would never be enough.

Then, he just dropped his head back against the sofa, and the fight drained out of him like a deflated balloon.

"It's fine," he murmured listlessly. It didn't sound fine. Bu then, a small smile twisted into place, he looked back at John and met his eyes, and once again had slid back to genuine. "Truly. We both know I've been making assumptions about your sexuality since the first minute we met."

John fidgeted uncomfortably again, and said nothing.

Yes, of course Sherlock had. Since the very instant Sherlock had laid eyes on him.

What had Sherlock deduced about him that it had taken John this long to start to accept himself? Had Sherlock deduced men in the military, that had always been assuredly Not Gay as long as it was in the dark and they didn't speak the next day? Had Sherlock deduced John's own attraction to him before John had even realised it himself?

John, very wisely, he thought, didn't press Sherlock for details.

In fact, what John now wanted, more than anything, was an excuse to change the bloody subject. He risked a glance back over at Sherlock to see that his friend at least did look calmer now, still leaned back against the sofa with his tired gaze now floating on the ceiling. The acceptance of his apology did at least seem genuine, this time-- the people Sherlock was really angry at weren't in this room. Those who had made assumptions over the years, and assuredly said things to him much, much worse than _asexual._ There was nothing John could do about that, beyond just accepting him for who he was now.

There was a very small scratch on one cheek. Barely noticeable, except to the trained eye, but John's was trained, and he knew Sherlock's face better than his own. As he watched, Sherlock scratched at his chin, still dark with stubble, then his scraped cheek, just the same. It made him look so much older.

"Still can't shave?"

The look on Sherlock's face said, quite clearly, that he was just as relieved for the change in topic as John. "Evidently not." He grimaced, though perhaps it was closer to a pout, and held up his hand again for John's inspection. This time, there was just the slightest waver of his fingers that hadn't been there before. "Everything else is getting better, but... my hands have decided they still hate me, it seems."

John shrugged back, at least a little in sympathy. Prevailing wisdom was probably that Sherlock deserved it, and the longer he had to last through the withdrawal, the likelier he'd be to resist the urge to use again the next time it came. But the look on Sherlock's face was just a little bit _actually forlorn,_ Jesus Christ, he looked so tired, like a kicked puppy--

Which was why he opened his mouth, and continued his pattern of _astronomically stupid things for John Watson to say today:_

"I could help you shave. If you'd like."

Sherlock blinked.

John heard the words in his head on replay. Distant, as if they'd been said by somebody else, somebody else entirely. He blinked too.

Oh, _no._

"It's just--" he rushed to justify, "I know you hate how it feels, and it might be a week or two more until your hands stay steady enough. ...it's only if you--"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"...Yes?"

"Yes. Please." He sat up an inch straighter, almost seeming to inflate and glow, his face transformed from a kicked puppy to an eager one. "That would be-- much appreciated. Yes."

And there it was. John's fate-- sealed by his own stupid mouth.

 _Fuck,_ this was going to be a long visit.

* * *

It wouldn't be the first time that John had helped Sherlock shave. That dubious honor would go towards last year, when Sherlock had been in hospital, in too much pain to sit up straight and too drugged for fine motor skills involving a straight blade and his face. There'd been a lot of firsts, back then. Tasks John really should've just left to the nurses, but how could he have? It was _Sherlock,_ Sherlock who was in pain and didn't like new people, and his wife was a bloody lying assassin that had put him there. And John, who had so _badly_ needed to feel useful. How could he have left it for someone else to take care of? Someone who hadn't known how to handle and deal with Sherlock, how to weather his verbal evisceration, what his limits were, how to touch him and how to not?

Sitting here, touching Sherlock's face in the intimacy of his kitchen, without a scar staring him in the face every time that he looked at him, was going to feel very, very different.

He let Sherlock handle the shaving cream, partly because he knew that he could, mostly just to avoid touching his face as much as possible. Sherlock probably could deduce how uncomfortable he was, but for once the genius kept his mouth shut about it. He must have really wanted his face clean. Surely, John could provide at least _that much._ Five, ten minutes, taking care of a patient; that was all this was. Yes. _Obviously._

 _God,_ he was such an idiot.

"You ready?" he asked, holding up the razor. "Hold still."

"Hmm." Sherlock did, indeed, hold still, perfectly still, his eyes tracking John's every move. Sea-green, today.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. He wasn't really touching Sherlock's skin, and the thick, white cover of shaving cream distorted his features and his mouth in particular. It was easy enough to distance himself, and treat him as he would any other patient. Even if Sherlock was the only patient he'd do this for.

Sherlock waited for John to step back, turning to wash out the blade, to speak up again.

"I have, you know. Had an interest."

"An interest in what?"

"People," Sherlock said, then swallowed. "Sorry. Men, specifically."

John jolted again. He was suddenly very, very glad that his back was currently to Sherlock.

"...Oh," he said. Because what else was he supposed to say? _Oh_. _That's nice, Sherlock. Please, tell me more about your sex life._ He cleared his throat, giving the razor a final shake.

Sherlock shrugged. "You said I never had. And it's true that I haven't in a while, but I have. Had relationships, I mean. And sex." He paused for a moment, stroking his long fingers along the table. "Not that there is anything wrong with asexuality. But I'm not asexual, John. I just don't shag idiots."

Mind bleach, please. Or for another bomb to go off in the flat. Either one would be welcome, at this point.

The razor kept Sherlock silent, which John was now extremely grateful for. Perhaps he'd finally found the magic ingredient to getting Sherlock to be quiet, and it was holding a sharp blade flush against the delicate skin of his face. He swallowed again, staring very hard at Sherlock's cheek rather than the two aqua eyes that tracked his every movement like a hawk.

Why was Sherlock telling him this? Was he still hurt by John's assumption that he'd never been interested in anyone? It didn't seem like it. No... this one felt more like a challenge. As if trying to assert to the world at large, and John in particular, that he _could_ be interested. In-- sex. Sherlock and sex in the same sentence.

Sherlock was really trying to make this as difficult on him as possible, wasn't he?

"Anyone that I know?" he asked finally, and rather stupidly. What, did he think Sherlock and Lestrade had had a fling on the side? Sherlock had just said that he hadn't in a while.

Sherlock again waited for John to step back to shrug for a second time. "Technically." He worked his jaw, splaying his fingers out in his lap. "You met him, the other day. Oscar. Dr. Oscar Wilson, at Cambridge."

Dr. Oscar Wilson... the man that had hugged Sherlock? And given him his card? _What?_

An immediate stab of dislike twisted John's insides.

"Oscar?" He re-evaluated in his head, adjusting the timeline. "So you would've been a grad student, then? And he was your supervisor, or something?"

Sherlock hummed an affirmation, the razor back against his skin. John did the math again-- Sherlock probably would've been in his mid-twenties, then. It was... a bit of an age difference, sure. But things had been different back then, hadn't they? It certainly seemed to have ended amicably enough, anyway. For Oscar to have been hugging him and giving him his card and... saying he'd _love to catch up..._

His hands went cold.

_Oh._

Just like that, all the pieces slid into place.

Sherlock, feeling unwell ever since they'd gone to Cambridge. Feeling-- _nervous._

Sherlock, clearly stewing over his sexuality, and relationships, and _romantic entanglement,_ ever since that visit to Cambridge. Continuing to talk about it now, insisting to John that he had had relationships before, that he was capable of it, that he was still capable of it.

That hadn't been an offer of just drinks between old colleagues, had it?

That had been a _date._

Understanding swooped over him with a feeling a bit similar to a brick to the head.

Okay. Okay. _Breathe, John._ A date. Sherlock was perfectly within his rights to go on a date with whomever he liked. In fact, it was a _good thing._ Wasn't it? Ella would probably say it was a good thing. Sherlock spreading out a little bit, making other connections, having someone to rely on besides John. It was a good thing, yes? And Sherlock awkwardly bringing it up like this, testing the waters, as if... he was trying to get his approval?

John forced himself to remain calm, and turned away to start washing the razor again.

"I'm guessing things ended amicably? If he's asking to see you again?"

Sherlock hummed again. "It was always a very situational partnership. I left school and started working with Lestrade, and he wound up getting a Nobel Prize. Our paths didn't exactly cross often at that point, and we grew apart."

John sputtered back, nearly scratching Sherlock again with the razor. A Nobel Prize. Oh, _of course._ Of bloody _course_ Sherlock's last partner had a _fucking Nobel Prize._ Honestly--

"That... happens, sometimes," he managed, almost coughing the words out. He swallowed again, his mouth suddenly bone-dry, and peered closer at Sherlock's face. "Almost done, I think. Just hold still for a little bit longer." He glanced up to meet Sherlock's gaze and ended up trailing over the stitches. "These are ready to come out too. I can do it now, unless you want to wait for your next check-up?"

But Sherlock shook his head immediately, so quickly his face nudged into John's palm. "If you don't take them out, I will. They itch."

"Is it a good idea for you to poke near your eye with sharp objects right now?" John rolled his eyes, then poked his nose when Sherlock looked to to be about to reply with an indignant defense. "Don't answer that. I'll take them out. Hold still another second." He slipped back to the loo to go through his kit and head back, the proper supplies now in hand. Sherlock had, at least, had the good sense to keep his medical supplies... even if he doubted he'd used most of them for anything that was remotely medically sanctioned.

There was an odd weight, hanging in his chest. An uncomfortable sort of pain lodged there that made it just a bit hard to breathe, and even harder to stand there, just inches away from Sherlock's face, staring down into his eyes. This was-- this was much worse than shaving him had been. This was so much worse.

John took a deep breath, and forced his hand to steady.

"You okay?" A nod. "All right. Hold still."

Another moment of silence. Sherlock did, indeed, hold perfectly still. He kept his eyes closed, this time, long lashes against his damp, now clean cheek.

This was good. This was normal. Because some part of John still badly wanted this to have a happy ending, a happy, storybook ending for the both of them, where John kissed him and Sherlock said _I love you too_ and that was it, happily ever after, but that was just it. It wasn't going to happen. The fact that Sherlock was interested in men after all certainly did not mean he was interested in John.

The crux of the matter was, John wasn't going to have that happy ending. Not with Sherlock, not in that way.

Happy endings did not have one man taking out the stitches he'd beaten into the other's face.

But if he wanted to be a good friend to Sherlock, if that was really, _actually_ what he wanted, then what he _could_ do was support him trying to find that happy ending with someone else.

"I think you give it a go. With--" _Dr. Slug in a Suit,_ "Oscar."

Sherlock stiffened under John's hands. His eyes fluttered back open to slits, just enough to glare at him sideways, looking almost like a snake. "No."

"Come on. Just one date."

"He's a second-rate researcher. I have no respect for his science, and I have no tolerance for stupid people. You know this."

Yeah, sure. Cambridge professor, fucking _Nobel prize_ winner, for god's sake. John rolled his eyes again, giving Sherlock's shoulder a nudge. "Everyone's second-rate, compared to you." He watched closely as his friend's mouth twitched and curled downwards, like he'd said something that was not at all funny, and sighed. "What've you got to lose, Sherlock?"

But he just kept his mouth shut. He grabbed the flannel from the table instead and started patting his face dry, obscuring his expression underneath the faded green cotton and remnants of shaving cream, and still glared down at the table rather than up at him.

John tried again. "Look, if you're not interested in it at all, then that's fine. But I think that you are. Otherwise you would've deleted everything about it days ago. And..." He gave a deliberate pause, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's downturned gaze. "Are you telling me that if I go look at the mantle, I _won't_ find his card stabbed there next to the skull?"

Sherlock's answering silent twitch was as good as an admission. And for once, John really, really hated to be proven right.

It was quiet for another moment. Sherlock remained perfectly, obediently motionless under his hands, finally almost like himself again. Just another stitch from over his eye, and all the horrible marks of this dreadful case would be gone. He'd be Sherlock Holmes again and they could finally start making their first strides to moving past this, and on to a better future. Sherlock wasn't going to do drugs ever again, John was never going to hit him again, and... and Sherlock was going to move on. They were going to stop being so bloody co-dependent and he was going to find someone that wasn't John.

He was going to find someone to make him happy, because as badly as John wanted it-- he wasn't it.

Sherlock took in another small breath, his gaze flickering back downwards. His face was clouded and unreadable, and John wasn't sure what to do with it.

He snipped the final stitch instead, and gently pressed a cotton ball to the mark, absorbing the few drops of fresh blood to keep it clear from Sherlock's eyes. "All done," he murmured. It felt like he was fighting his voice out past a nest of cacti in his throat.

Sherlock looked silently back up at him, blue-green eyes meeting his through his lashes. He still did not move, clean-shaven and clear-eyed and so _close._ He could smell Sherlock's bloody posh boy shampoo.

He could lean in and kiss Sherlock. It would be the easiest thing in the world. His skin was warm and his eyes were bright and he was _right there._ He could move just an inch and closer and kiss the fading scar that he'd just taken the stitches out of. He could kiss his face, and touch his hair, and work the tired, pained wrinkles out of his skin, and make him bloody _smile._ He'd barely smiled the entire time John had been here.

Sherlock breathed in again, the air warm against his neck. He held John's gaze and did not look away.

"This would make you happy?" he asked quietly. "If I did this?"

John swallowed hard again.

_No. It won't at all. It'll make me miserable. I'm already miserable. He's a bastard. I don't even know him and he's a bastard. Don't do it. It won't make me happy at all._

"Yes," John said, and smiled. "It would."

Sherlock looked silently back at him, his eyes piercing and so gloriously blue. He just sat there and looked at him, very pale and perfectly calm and so very unreadable.

"Okay," he said.

He did not smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> Oh, John. A swing and a miss.
> 
> I promise, the "all this conflict would be resolved with a single straight conversation" won't drag out for too long! John will get there soon. He just needs one or two more nudges to go!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Onwards-- this chapter is a bit slow, but it's just before things kick up next chapter :)

When John had encouraged Sherlock to go out on a case, he really hadn't done it so he could be sent out to investigate _on his own._

"You're sure?" he asked. It was now the third time that he'd asked today alone, this time waiting with his jacket done up and his bag over his shoulder. It was a stupid question. He was already standing right by the door. "You always said my interview skills were horrible. If you--"

"I'm quite sure, John." Sherlock remained reclined in his armchair, pajama-clad and dressing gown-draped, absolutely still with his eyes shut. The nausea, at least, had abated. With his fingers interlaced under his chin and his long lashes against his cheek and clean-shaven again, he looked like an especially lazy Greek statute.

Emphasis on the lazy.

One more try. "I'm only--"

"I wouldn't be of much assistance. I don't feel well."

John gritted his teeth, and kept silent.

It was a transparent lie. And what was worse, it was one that Sherlock had no reason to think he would fall for. John knew very well what drugs exactly Sherlock was suffering in withdrawal from, he knew exactly what the detox had and was going to look like, and he'd been making a chart of his recovery to keep a close eye on it. He knew that Sherlock was through the worst of the withdrawal, and while he still would have bad days, the severe symptoms were beaten down. He was well enough to work a case so long as it wasn't physically intensive, and a few sit-down interviews weren't physically intensive. He wasn't only well enough; it was _good for him_. The last thing John would recommend to any patient of his that was well enough to work would be to vegetate inside his bloody flat.

He didn't know who Sherlock was even trying to fool. John had seen him hankering for a case when buried in a ball of blankets with pneumonia, silently whinging and pouting with a terrible case of laryngitis, and recovering from a gunshot to the chest. A runny nose, headache, and muscle aches wasn't enough to keep Sherlock away from a case. And John had been watching Sherlock all day-- he had none of the above.

It was just like that day at Cambridge. He felt well enough to work a case... but something about this one made him say _no._

"You want me to Skype you?" he tried, and without much hope at all. "We've done it before. And I wouldn't mind--"

"No," Sherlock said again. He inhaled, long and slow, vibrant eyes just barely opened to slits. He stared at the floor through his lashes as if it held the answer to all of life's mysteries, his legs long and stretched, his thin hands interlaced together over his stomach. "The offer is much appreciated, John, but I actually think I'm going to go have a lie down. Catch up on some sleep, like you're always telling me to do. Good luck on the interviews."

This wasn't right at all. This wasn't-- _Sherlock._

John swallowed hard, and let his gaze linger on the fading mark over Sherlock's left eye.

He wanted to kick the door shut, go make tea, and then sit down right next to Sherlock until he wrangled the truth out of him. He wanted to tell Sherlock to shut the hell up and stop playing him for an idiot, demand to find out what was wrong right now. He wanted to pull Sherlock into a hug and hold him until the pained grimace went away and whatever this was, make it right.

And he couldn't.

Something was clearly wrong, that Sherlock clearly did not want to talk about. And John had very definitely lost the right to drag it out of him.

"...Okay," he said finally, clearing his throat. "If you're sure."

Sherlock kept his eyes shut, his face calm, and his entire body perfectly still. He very clearly had no intention of responding whatsoever, or moving in any way.

After another few moments of waiting in useless silence, John found himself with no choice but to just turn back down the stairs without another word.

* * *

There was one positive, however, about Sherlock refusing to come along during the interviews.

And that was that John could now actually make the most of them.

He went to the floor of the crime scene first, to the labs and researchers that they had met last time. Professional smile firmly in place, introducing himself as a police consultant, standing firmly in every doorway and refusing to allow himself to be dismissed away.

And one by one, he gathered his notes.

"Dr. John Watson," he said, holding his hand out to shake. Dr. Anthony Small, cancer researcher. "I'm here with the police, about your colleague's death. I'm just here to ask you a few questions about him, if that's--"

"Yes, yes, I remember. Whatever I can do to help." He ticked his pen between his hands, one skeptical eyebrow raised. "No Sherlock Holmes today, then?"

"Nope, I'm afraid it's just me." John sat down, pulling out his own notes with a perfunctory smile. "Sorry, but you'll have to wait if you want to meet the famous hat detective."

Dr. Small just shrugged, his gaze lowered back down to his desk in ill-disguised boredom. "I think I'll live."

A short moment passed in silence. He did not go on. No elaboration, no explanation. Just that short, cryptic _I think I'll live,_ with a strained smile that was just barely this side of polite.

John's answering smile back felt like grinding glass between his teeth. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I've got a class in ten minutes; do you mind if we move this along?"

Next up on the docket was Dr. Jacequline Macron, a lecturer in pharmacology. She, too, had been around Cambridge since Sherlock would've been a student here, and this time, she was already on her own way out the door. She was even more direct than her colleague. "All alone today? Sherlock always was a little flakey."

"Everyone here seems to remember him very well," John said tightly. He clenched his jaw, digging his thumb into his pocket just to keep his hands still. "He was a student here twenty years ago, right? Do you usually remember all your students like that?"

"No, no. Of course not," she murmured, hardly paying him any mind. "But Sherlock is a very... unique person, isn't he? Unique name, unique face. And that personality-- well. Let's just say he got a lot of attention, even back then. But that's enough of that, isn't it?" She smiled back at him, just as strained and professional as John. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

He had quite a lot of questions that he wanted to ask her, actually. But once again, John held his tongue, and just kept on smiling.

He might not have been as good at this as Sherlock, but he'd at least picked up a few things over the years. And one thing that he'd learned was that asking a few questions to a lot of people would get him more answers than staging a full on interrogation to just one. And as irritated at John was coming to be at every single staff member he met here today, what he wanted, more than anything else, was _answers._

He moved on.

Over and over, the answers were the same. Little tidbits of information that painted out a Sherlock that was familiar and yet not. A picture that was almost right but didn't _quite_ make sense, and piece by puzzle piece, only made John even more apprehensive than before.

"He was always an arrogant bugger, just as bad as he seems in the news. Didn't quite seem to figure the difference between asking questions and showing off-- and there were so many rumors about him at the time, but his grades in my class at least always backed it up, so I suppose I can't complain..."

"Oh, Sherlock? He was terribly inconsistent back then; I hope it's easier for you to work with him now. He skipped out on meetings and labwork all the time. Well, he said he was sick, but really. Who's sick that often, at that age--?"

"God, no, he was a horrible student. I never had him myself, to be honest, but I heard the rumors. His brother had to try to pull some strings, to get him to pass, but even that wasn't enough. Nobody liked him back then, he was always a bit odd, you know..."

"The year he graduated? Oh, he didn't graduate, Dr. Watson. Sherlock dropped out, didn't he tell you?"

One by one, John gathered the pieces. And one by one, they made a picture that, while he'd need Sherlock Holmes to help interpret it, he was pretty sure he wasn't going to like the final product.

On one hand, it actually wasn't all that unbelievable a story at all. The general contours of it matched Sherlock, very exactly. Skipping class and meetings, arrogant and unlikable; even dropping out before finishing his degree. A piece of paper wouldn't have mattered to Sherlock in the slightest-- John wouldn't have been surprised if he'd just gotten bored with jumping through administrative hoops and required english lit classes, decided he'd learned all that he wanted to from the program, and skipped out on the rest of term. It was the same rationale for not being surprised that they remembered Sherlock either not showing up to class at all, or strolling in the door to be the most arrogant bastard on campus. Sherlock sure as hell wouldn't have bothered to go to a class he wasn't getting anything out of, and even back then, John figured that Sherlock was so brilliant that most of his classes wouldn't have been worth his time.

It even made sense about Oscar, too. Sherlock clearly had not been a popular student, far from it-- he'd heard how Sebastian Wilkes had talked about him as a peer, and now he'd heard how his teachers talked abut him as a student. Sherlock had been hated while he was in school. If Oscar had been kind to him, if Oscar had liked him, then it really seemed like he'd been the only one to do it. Of course Sherlock would've been close to the only person who'd not hated him.

But... the way the other professors had talked about him. The annoyance, and in some cases, the barely concealed, outright disdain.

They didn't remember him as a genius that hadn't had the patience for paperwork. They talked about him like he was an idiot. They talked about him a bit like Anderson and Donovan had, before the fall, just with an extra smear of professionalism-- that he'd been _weird_ and _odd_ and _unlikeable._

And then there were the tidbits about him being sickly and unwell, and Mycroft having to pull strings for him, which... what was _that_ about? He supposed it'd make sense, if Sherlock had started using before he'd dropped out, but Sherlock was the type to show up to class high as a kite and ranting his head off. Not fake a call in sick.

He took his notes, and with each interview, his sense of apprehension grew.

There was definitely a reason that Sherlock had first refused to take this case. And it was the same reason he had refused to come with John today, and it was the same reason he had now been so quiet and out of sorts for days.

He didn't have all the pieces yet, but maybe with the set he'd amassed so far, he finally had enough to get Sherlock to give him the rest.

John didn't stop in to visit Dr. Andrews. He was pretty sure he'd well and burned that bridge already.

His last stop of the day, instead, was downstairs, a very brief visit in on Dr. Adriana Smith, a lecturer on organic chemistry and researcher into pharmacology, and only employed by Cambridge for the last ten years. Her time at Cambridge didn't come close to overlapping with Sherlock's, so for once, he was able to go down to her office without a building knot of trepidation or a wary sense of protective dislike. John quickly got her statement on the deceased-- he was, after all, at least _pretending_ to be here for a case- _-_ and with that, the day was wrapped up.

"Thank you for your time," he said, offering a handshake and yet another polite smile. His face was starting to hurt. "We'll try to wrap this up as soon as possible."

"Of course," the researcher said, already turning back to the papers spread across her desk. "Whatever I can do to help."

John, one step out the door and his sights already set on a long drive home, double-backed for one question more.

"One last thing, actually-- I was wondering, do you have any idea where Dr. Oscar Wilson might be? I stopped by his office earlier, and he wasn't in."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, he's got a class right now. Try again in an hour?"

"Right," said John. "I'll be sure to." A beat of silence, something very close to jealousy screaming in his ears. "Would you mind telling me a bit about him, actually? Not related to the case-- my clinic's looking to partner in a research project, and he's on the short list. I haven't been made to find out much about him and was looking forward to the opportunity."

"...Ah." The researcher paused, looking back up at him. She was quiet for a moment, just watching him, perfectly polite, the very picture of professionalism. "Well, I'm afraid I don't know him very well. But I'd never speak ill of a colleague, Doctor."

John's own smile grew strained. For just a moment, Sherlock's low, self-assured voice echoed in his head.

_Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're certainly omitting to do._

"Thank you," he said again, and that was that.

He certainly had collected a lot to think about.

* * *

On his way back into the city, John found himself unsure of what to say. Greg was driving him after a visit to the crime scene himself-- it was a long enough drive that carpooling was all but a necessity-- and after only a moment's indecision, John had told him to drop him off at his own flat rather than Baker Street. He'd promised to do better by Sherlock, but he'd also promised to do better by Rosie, and tonight, he could feel that the right thing to do was spend it with his daughter.

He also had no idea what he was going to say to Sherlock, and could use the night to at least attempt to get his thoughts together.

"You're a bit quiet," Greg said, upon coming to idle at a red light. They were nearly ten minutes away from campus, and John had barely managed more than a hello. "Something happen, at Cambridge?"

"No. No, it was fine. Nothing that relevant for you, I think, though I'll see what Sherlock has to say."

If Sherlock even listened as he recounted what he'd learned today. At this point, he wasn't sure if the world's only consulting detective could even care less about this case.

John turned his gaze away from Greg. First for a furtive glance out the window, and then just frowned at it the whole away. Trying to focus on the streets and trees passing them by, and not the inspector watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"And how's Sherlock doing, then?" Greg asked next, his voice wary. Clearly, he was fishing. "You said he wasn't feeling up to coming with you today?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

Another moment of silence.

"Look, John," he started, looking at him in very transparent worry. "If you think Sherlock isn't well enough for this, you just need to say so. I can live without his help, if that's--"

"No, no, that's not it. He's okay, it's just..." John hesitated, looking back across the seats. He didn't want to be talking about Sherlock behind his back to anyone, but... Greg was Sherlock's friend, wasn't he? He'd known him for even longer than John. If there was anybody he could talk about this to-- hell, if there was anyone who had a shot at giving him answers besides Sherlock-- Greg was it.

John took in another breath, and started.

"Do you know why Sherlock was so resistant about coming to Cambridge, the other day?"

Greg blinked. "That's what this is about? No. No idea, actually." He frowned again, transferring his gaze back to the road. "I know he studied at Cambridge, a long time ago, but it's not as if he ever talks about it. I don't think he had a great time there, but... come on. It's Sherlock. It's pretty easy to guess he wasn't the most popular kid in school." He tried for another grin, but John wasn't exactly in a joking mood, and it faded back into barely concealed concern as the light changed to green. "Is something going on?"

_Yes. No. I don't know. I'm worried. I'm worried about Sherlock and I don't know if that's fair or I'm just jealous but I can't stand watching something happen to him again. I'm tired of watching him get hurt._

"It's... nothing."

"Mhmm."

John squeezed his eyes shut, covering his mouth with one hand. _Damn it,_ this was going nowhere. He tried to sift through the words as best he could, to try and keep Sherlock's privacy while at the same time get an answer. Because he knew he could trust Greg, but he still didn't know what _this_ even was. "He's just been really quiet the past few days and I think it's more than just Sherlock being Sherlock, you know? He's meeting one of his old professors for drinks in a few days and maybe he's a bit nervous about it, I don't know." Or maybe that was John and a bloody inferiority complex. "The one who won a Nobel Prize and all, because of course Sherlock knows someone who's won a Nobel Prize..."

Another moment passed in silence. At first John thought that Greg just didn't have something to say to that at all. But when he looked back over to him, it was to find him suddenly looking very, very uncomfortable.

"...Greg?"

He coughed and shifted, staring hard at the road. "It's nothing. I'm sure." He offered John a very strained smile, his fingers tapped hard once along the steering wheel. The same sort of strained smile it felt like he'd been getting all fucking day long. "It's--"

"No. It's not _nothing,_ Greg, obviously; what is it?"

He was getting really bloody tired of being the only one left in the dark.

"It's... it's really nothing," Greg said again. But it was a transparent lie and he still wouldn't look at John. He flicked the turn signal and stared hard at the road and _wouldn't_ look at him. "I'm only thinking... are there a lot of people at Cambridge that've won a Nobel Prize, John?"

Something _was_ wrong. Something specifically with Oscar. He'd thought he was just being jealous, but that wasn't it. That wasn't--

"Uh, I don't know, probably a few." Fuck. _Fuck,_ what was going on? What had he missed? What had Oscar done to Sherlock? "It's not the most common thing in the world; Greg, _why?_ Why are you asking me this?"

But Greg just fell back into another silence. His thumb traced steadily against the steering wheel and his features were schooled into some sort of sad attempt at nonchalance, but John could see plain as day that there was something underneath it.

"Look, it's probably not anything important." He tried for a grin in John's direction. It was about as transparent as everything else. "I don't think--"

"You clearly think it's something, or you wouldn't have asked."

"All right, I don't think Sherlock would want me talking about it without him knowing."

John's worry just about broke the sound barrier.

So Greg _did_ know something. This man, this, this slimy slug in a suit, he'd been involved with Sherlock before, and enough so that Greg was able to remember it two decades later and clearly not in a positive light. John had been right. It wasn't just jealousy, it was more than that, this _bastard_ had, had--

"No, John, really, I mean it-- it's nothing," Greg insisted, his voice harder than before. "It was just conjecture anyway, I never met him, and Sherlock never actually said anything about him. Besides, if this guy was actually bad news, I doubt Sherlock would willingly meet him for drinks." He stopped for a moment, clearly replaying what he'd just said in his head, then shot John another grin. "Well. _Sherlock_ might. So in that case I'll keep my phone on in case you two need me to arrest a serial killer at a pub. But other than that, I'm sure that it'll be fine."

He said the words with an air of finality, putting the conversation, or at least this topic of it, at a decisive end. Whatever it was that he knew, he clearly didn't want to talk about it behind Sherlock's back, and John couldn't make him. And he didn't like it, not at all, but... he also did have a point. If this man had hurt Sherlock somehow, Greg definitely wouldn't be keeping silent about it now. Hell, if this man had hurt Sherlock, Greg was, again, right-- Sherlock wouldn't exactly be going on a date with him now, would he? Of course not.

There was still definitely something to be worried about here, something that he was missing, but... it wasn't that. No. There had to be another piece he was missing.

John gritted his teeth again, and forced the wave of anxiety back down into his stomach.

"Okay," he said, and frowned out the window for the rest of the drive.

* * *

"I don't like him," John said.

Ella waited politely a moment longer. For some justification, perhaps; at least an explanation as to why. _Something_ to make this remotely an okay thing to say or at least give it some measure of sense.

There wasn't anything else.

"I don't like him," he said again, clenching his jaw hard. "That's it."

"...All right." She cleared her throat when he did not, watching him almost too closely, and in a way he didn't entirely like. "Have you considered that you are--"

"Jealous? Yes." He sucked his lip between his teeth, trying very hard to wrangle the words into something calm and in control. "That's actually why I brought it up. I wanted to make sure that was... all it was."

He just couldn't put his misgivings aside. He _knew_ he was jealous, he _knew_ Sherlock could take care of himself, but John couldn't help it. He wanted to protect Sherlock and right now, there was something telling him that he needed protecting.

_Then why didn't you protect him when he was overdosing and suicidal and actually needed your help?_

John clenched his fists together again, forcing in a deep, calming breath, and looked back at Ella.

"He doesn't seem all that excited about it. Or happy, or... normal. At all. I know Sherlock's not normal, but I really think he only even said yes to the date to get me to shut up about it." And since when had Sherlock done that? When had Sherlock not taken John's nagging as a challenge to be stubborn and dig his heels in and fight like a damn bull? "He acted strangely at Cambridge as well. I don't know what was wrong, exactly, but he definitely didn't want to be there."

"And how about his interactions with Dr. Wilson, specifically? Did he seem comfortable with him?"

John sighed, thinking back on it again. God knew what _Sherlock, uncomfortable_ actually looked like. Or whether that was even important. Sherlock was uncomfortable at Tesco's but in his element when taunting a serial killer, for god's sake.

He'd checked, after Greg's comment in the car. And he was now at least ninety percent sure that Oscar Wilson wasn't a serial killer.

So, there was at least that.

"He wasn't _uncomfortable,"_ he gave finally, grimacing. "He didn't do or say anything to imply that things had ended badly with this guy, either. I'm sure if he'd been-- I don't know, abusive or something, he would've said so. Or at least told me to shut up about it." He stopped again, trying to sift through the words, his sense of unease, and land on something concrete. Because obviously Sherlock hadn't been abused or hurt by him, they wouldn't have gotten this far to this conversation if he had, but Sherlock had very clearly not been thrilled to see him.

"The age difference," he started again, still fishing for the slightest bit of dry land. "Not so much now, at our ages, but when they were first involved. I know times were different back then, and things that aren't okay were still accepted then. But even so..."

"How old was Sherlock, the first time?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. Twenty-four, twenty-five, maybe. He was a graduate student. But Dr. Wilson would've been almost twenty years older, and I'm... god." He dropped back heavily in his chair to sink his head against his hand, bearing the brunt of a wave of anger and self-loathing. "You see what I mean? Sherlock would've been a foot taller than him and several dozen times smarter. Seriously, who could take advantage of _Sherlock?_ He wasn't a baby, he was an adult, god have mercy on anyone stupid enough to try something like that with him-- I don't even know what I think could've happened, but I'm worried about it anyway!"

Ella sat quietly for several moments, letting him talk himself again to a standstill. She glanced at her notes, sliding a thumb up and down her pen, and-- he knew that look. The Concerned Therapist face. The _something's wrong and it's obvious to me but not obvious to you_ face.

"What? What is it?"

"John..." She set aside her notes to direct her full attention onto him, looking at him _sadly,_ and with eyes full of sympathy. Misplaced sympathy. "Abusive relationships can be very complicated. The stereotypical battered wife imagery people often think of is certainly one way they can look, but there are many others, and the effects they have can be long-reaching, and sometimes not entirely clear, even to the people involved."

"You think that's what this is?" A cold seed of absolute _fury_ started to form in his stomach. For a moment it felt like all the air had been robbed from the room and all that was left was the seething anger inside his head. _So it's not just me._ "You think this man abused Sherlock?"

"I didn't say that. I have never met Dr. Wilson, and as I've said, the few patient interactions that I've had with Sherlock are confidential. All I have are your impressions, John," she said, frowning. "What I am saying is that abusive relationships, especially ones that last for a while or are otherwise significant in a person's life, can skew how someone sees relationships for a long time. When your most significant experiences with a relationship are toxic, negative, and painful, it's a natural defense mechanism to be wary of relationships in the future." She looked at him solemnly, as if waiting for the penny to drop. The penny that she still held in her own hands. "It's not healthy. But it is natural."

John stiffened. His hands suddenly ached and the angry knot in his stomach started to morph into something even more awful instead.

Was that why Sherlock had been so wary about this? Was that what Ella was trying to say? That John was really the most significant relationship that Sherlock had ever had, platonic or not, and... John had hurt him. John had used his fists and his words to hurt Sherlock more than once. Sometimes not even on purpose, but-- sometimes intentionally.

And Sherlock insisted he had forgiven it, that he had forgiven it before John had even said he was sorry. Before he had ever promised to never do it again. But forgiveness didn't change the fact that all the experience Sherlock had with intimacy and closeness was the worst things that John had ever done to him.

God, was that why? Was that why he'd been so reluctant? Had John even managed to fuck this up, too?

He'd messed this up so bad. It was too broken to ever be fixed, god, he'd done so _much_ to Sherlock. Sherlock would be best off if he'd never met him. He should-- he should just go away. He should take Rosie and move to some retirement village in the middle of nowhere and never bother him again. Oh, _god._

Ella cleared her throat again, her eyes softening. "It's also natural to be wary of relationships you see in others, John. Sometimes, you might even look at relationships that you see your friends have, be reminded of your own, and see abuse when there is nothing there."

But what did that have to do with Sherlock? What relationships was Sherlock looking at beyond his own? For a case, maybe? But Sherlock was insistent that the murder here had nothing to do with an affair. Or--

The pieces clicked, and John's stomach sank.

Oh.

"You're not talking about Sherlock," he said numbly. "You're talking about me."

Finally, the penny actually dropped.

Ella waited for him again. She watched hm only in calm, neutral sympathy, no expectations, no demands, just letting the words to settle. But they fell on deaf ears. It felt like John had just walked into a brick wall and was now just standing there, repeatably ramming his face against it.

"I know that you feel your relationship with Mary wasn't abusive," she started gently, when John had finally collected his brain matter off the floor. "She never hit you or Rosie. And after your experience with your own parents and childhood, and what you have with Sherlock-- even all the violent cases you've seen with him-- you don't like giving such a strong label to what you had with Mary. But you have, at least, admitted that by its end, it was a toxic, loveless marriage."

"That wasn't her fault," he insisted. A very limp and obligatory defense of the woman he'd been supposed to love _until death do us part_. "I didn't love her. But she--"

"She probably knew that. She probably knew that you didn't love her anymore. That you might have been able to forgive her for lying to you, but not for hurting Sherlock, and that you never would." She set her notes aside again to look at him without any other distractions, because this was _Important;_ she clearly thought this was crucially, vitally _Important_ for him to hear. "You were incredibly unhappy, John, and while some of those feelings might've been related to how you felt about Sherlock, the root cause of it was that you were married to a woman that didn't care about you. You've said yourself that you felt ignored, belittled, and brushed aside. You didn't feel that she ever took you seriously, and you've said that if it hadn't been for Rosie and Sherlock's encouragement, that you'd never have gone back to her. You've also said that you wished you hadn't." She paused for another long moment, her eyes kind. "That doesn't sound like a happy or healthy marriage, John."

John shifted again, increasingly and even more bloody uncomfortable. He broke eyes with Ella to look back down at his lap, and he absolutely _hated it._

"It wasn't," he snapped finally, his voice rough. "Okay? It was horrible. We probably hated each other, by the end. And we probably should never have gotten married in the first place."

It was too difficult to dissect it. He'd given up trying. If he'd have ever gone back to Mary if he hadn't had his unborn child and Sherlock to worry about, because Sherlock had insisted he could trust her, but how, exactly, had John been meant to believe that? She'd already shot Sherlock once. Why was he supposed to trust that she wouldn't shoot him again, if John gave her a reason to? Why was he supposed to trust that she wouldn't do something to their baby? Why was he supposed to trust that she wouldn't shoot _him?_

It had been so much easier to just let Sherlock convince him to go back to her. It had been so much easier to just tell himself that he'd forgiven her, and that he still loved her.

Neither of those things had been true.

"But thousands of people have loveless marriages, Ella," he said next, looking away. Something inside his chest hurt and he bit his lip, trying to swallow it down. "Even my bloody sister's marriage was pretty damn miserable by the end. That doesn't make it abusive."

Because it wasn't. What his father had done to his mother-- that was abuse. What he'd done to Sherlock in the morgue was abuse. The domestic violence and homicide cases that he worked with Sherlock were abuse.

The tense silence that had suffocated his flat with Mary by the end, broken only by Rosie crying in the middle of the night, was not.

"All right," Ella said gently, holding a hand up in unresisting surrender. "You don't feel it was abusive. All right-- then let's look at it another way. Imagine it wasn't Sherlock that you had feelings for, John. Imagine that it wasn't a man at all. Just... a woman that you'd met at work, that you have no prior history with at all. No faked suicides, or drug addictions, none of the things that make it so complicated with Sherlock. Would you still be willing to try a relationship, with her? Or would you still be wary-- just like you are with him?"

John looked away again. He wasn't the world's biggest fan of hypotheticals like this-- it wasn't real, so what did it matter?-- but he could already see where Ella was going with this, and she'd already proven herself to be very, very good at what she did. So he swallowed his pride and he did it. He pictured the young, pretty doctor at the surgery, the one he might've been able to see himself with in another life. There was no interest there, now. She was smart, and pretty, and polite, and perfectly lovely. And there was no interest there at all.

He pictured it anyway.

What if he did fancy her? What if she fancied him? What then?

It felt like he'd just been served a plate of... of expensive oysters or caviar or escargot. Something very wonderful and socially acceptable, that he was meant to be excited for. And yet it did nothing but turn his stomach.

He loved Sherlock. He did.

But it wasn't just him.

He was... tired. Of putting himself out there, and-- it ending in him getting pummeled. Every time. Even his friendship with Sherlock. It was tumultuous and terrifying, and he had no way of knowing which phone call would be the one telling him that Sherlock was in hospital, 50/50 chance because of something the mad git had done to himself. If Sherlock would decide to take another purposeful fall off a rooftop, or overdose again, or get himself hit by a car, or whatever the fuck it was that went through his genius brain, usually all on purpose. Which day would be the last.

Even if a relationship with Sherlock was possible, which it wasn't, and even if he'd be good for Sherlock, which he wasn't-- John wasn't so sure it was what he wanted. Not right now.

"It's normal," he landed on at last, clearing his throat. Because he could admit that much, but he still didn't want to take the final step that Ella was asking from him. That was one step too far. "I mean, my wife did only die a few months ago, Ella. I'm pretty sure it's normal that I don't want to start dating anyone else right away."

Except that wasn't it.

That wasn't it at all.

"All right," Ella began again, after a long, careful pause. She took a sip of water, watching him with a gaze that didn't entirely feel like a triumph. "In any case, John-- I think that you are jealous, of Dr. Wilson. I also think that you are genuinely worried about Sherlock, and for good reason. Sherlock should be focusing on taking care of himself right now, not putting himself together for the sake of a relationship. Especially one that sounds as if it might have been founded on a severe power imbalance and might have ended for very good reasons."

"So you think he shouldn't be seeing him." _That I shouldn't have told him to see him._

"I think that you don't want Sherlock to be hurt. And he has been hurt a lot, lately. I also think your feelings about Sherlock seeing someone can't be as defined as simply as you want them to be." Ella broke off to smile at him, just for a moment, something warm that felt like a hand up for the first time all session. "I also think that you don't have anything to worry about."

John stiffened again. "You just said that I did. You just gave me ten different reasons why Sherlock shouldn't be seeing him."

"I did. And I'm confident that you'll be there for Sherlock if he should need it." She smiled at him again, a solid branch of encouragement. "John. You were so concerned that you were acting for your own interests instead of Sherlock's that you asked me to make sure you were doing the right thing. You were that worried about him, and that committed to being a better friend to him than you've been in the past. Regardless of all the reasons you gave me to be worried for Sherlock today-- you are not one of them."

It was clearly meant to be supportive, and encouragement. She was telling him that she had faith in him to do the right thing.

John sat back in his seat, and rubbed hopelessly at the growing knot of worry, settled right there in the center of his chest.

_But it doesn't feel that way._

_It doesn't feel that way at all._

* * *

_**typing...** _

_Why did you say yes to a date with Os_

_**typing...** _

_Do you actually want to_

_**typing...** _

_Be honest with me, do you like Oscar? Or_

_**typing...** _

_Please tell me you're not doing this because I said_

_**typing...** _

_I'm worried about you_

_**typing...** _

_You're a complete human being. You're fine just the way you are. You're absolutely fine. You're perfect. You don't need to be anything other than healthy and happy. Please don't do this just because you think it's what I want. That was one of the stupidest things I've ever said to you and I've said a lot but that was_

_**typing...** _

_I love y_

_**sent / 20:30** _

_Date still tomorrow? I can come over and help you get ready_

**Sherlock / 20:30**

Yes. -SH

**Sherlock / 20:30**

Please. -SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little comment I wanted to make as we go on-- John definitely is being a bit rough here! But what's going on in his head is that if the relationship had been abusive, of course Sherlock would simply say so. Because Sherlock is not saying so, and is in fact implying it at least ended amicably, he's not yet considering it as an option, and is instead rationalizing things that worry him about it, like the age difference. Basically, it's the same Sherlockian plan that we got through most of the series-- Sherlock withholds crucial information from John, and John misinterprets the situation as much better/safer than it actually is as a result, because making the leap to assume the horrible twist that Sherlock has left out on his own is ridiculous.
> 
> Don't worry-- John realizes Sherlock hasn't been entirely honest with him very soon. Things are about to kick up, starting with the next chapter :) 
> 
> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Onwards! 
> 
> Let the lightbulbs start to turn on...

The innermost circle of hell was helping the person you were in love with get ready for a date.

With somebody else.

"Why don't you try the blue one?" He tried not to look too closely at the lean line of Sherlock's back, or at the closet beyond it. It hardly mattered. Sherlock looked amazing in just about everything that he owned, and just about everything that he owned looked like he'd lifted it off a magazine cover.

Sherlock turned slowly back to him, hanger in hand. The shirt on it was, indeed, blue. A faded and worn blue, that looked like a pilfered uniform shirt for a factory worker, and a name tag that said _Anthony._

"What? No, Sherlock, what are you--?" Rolling his eyes, John ducked around him, stowing the disguise back in the closet to bring out one of the dress shirts instead. The blue one. "Sorry, but I think he'd be a little confused if you showed up with another man's shirt on."

"Oh." Sherlock accepted the shirt now draped over his arm, and then he just stood there and stared at it. The look on his face was actually a bit vacant, like he had never seen a shirt before and didn't know what to do with it. "What jacket do I wear with it?"

John was honestly started to get a little unsettled, now. Sherlock was still just staring at him, his eyes pale and wide, like the day John had asked him to be his best man. Except now it was over a suit and the right color of dress shirt. "I don't know, whatever matches, Sherlock." He once again grabbed an item from the closet, adding it to the cotton draped over his arm. "Come on, I know you're not really this thick, you'd said you'd been on dates before--"

"No, I didn't."

"--you've... what?"

Sherlock ignored him completely, instead lifting a pair of trousers as well (thankfully, not the bottoms from the set of fluorescent yellow traffic cop's uniform). "Is this serviceable?" He held out the full set out like it was a radioactive specimen and frowned at it. "It's a pity. I'd replicate one of your questionable date ensembles, but I am sorely lacking in hideous jumpers."

"But you said-- hang on! They are not _hideous_ , I-- oi! Sherlock!"

Because Sherlock had now started to unbutton his current shirt, his dressing gown already shrugged off to spill around him in a pool of blue silk. If helping him _pick an outfit for his date_ was a circle of hell, John didn't even have words for what watching Sherlock Holmes undress would be, _while sitting on his bloody bed._ "All right, I'll just," _okay, then_ , "I'll be outside," he said, already on his feet and shielding his eyes from a Sherlock that was now working at the button on his trousers. God, what was _wrong_ with him? "Don't take too long!" he shouted back, and shut the door behind him for good measure.

Bloody idiot, that man was. He could show up to his date wearing his dressing gown and the pink tee-shirt from the startup band _The_ _Bumpy Biscuits_ he'd gotten from a client, and he'd still look fantastic.

John crossed back into the sitting room, trying to will back down his foul mood as he reclaimed his chair. He definitely tried even harder not to think about all the outfits he'd seen in Sherlock's closet, and how he really, really hoped the smartest man in London could get the hang of getting dressed without him. He really wasn't sure how many dates he could manage to handhold him through.

Which raised the question--

_You said you'd been on dates before?_

_No, I didn't._

John frowned.

That, in typical Sherlockian speak, was true. He'd asked Sherlock if he'd had sex, and he'd asked Sherlock if he'd had a relationship. Well, Sherlock had actually just volunteered the information, but the point was that he'd never actually outright asked _have you been on a date before,_ because, well, he'd sort've figured they went hand in hand. But now Sherlock was denying it.

So what had Sherlock been saying yes to, exactly? Casual sex? Maybe when he'd been using? John swallowed again, now trying very hard not to think about a very differently clothed Sherlock, the hoodie and track pants figure he'd found half-asleep on a doss house's mattress with eyes so blue it should've been a crime, but this time with another nameless and faceless junkie in his arms.

But no, Sherlock had said very clearly that he'd had a _relationship._ Not just a relationship; he'd once had something with this man, specifically. This well-respected college professor, back when Sherlock had been a grad student.

That... that explained it, then. Didn't it? John shifted uneasily, trying to block out the rustling still coming from Sherlock's room. Of course they hadn't been able to go on public dates. Two men, in the early 2000s, both working at the same very high-profile university? No, they wouldn't have been able to go on public dates at all. Of course not. And it seemed that Sherlock had never really tried again after, so... this really was his first date.

If it didn't go well, John decided. Then he'd very gladly break the bloke's nose.

That wasn't jealousy. That was what a best friend was supposed to do, wasn't it? To someone who ruined said best friend's _first_ date? A broken nose wasn't jealousy, it was par for course.

John flexed his hand again in his lap, trying to force those gleeful thoughts out of mind. He really wasn't supposed to be enjoying thinking about breaking anyone's nose, or making excuses to do it.

There was also a pretty big piece of him that really _didn't_ want the date to go well.

The door to Sherlock's room swung back open, rhythmic footsteps pacing out on its heels. John looked up just in time to see Sherlock striding back into the sitting room, dressed... dressed like he always was. In his tailored trousers and shined shoes and the expensive shirt that was purposefully a size too small, his hair the ludicrous, shiny curls, his eyes bluer than the bloody shirt.

"You look. Um," John fumbled, his mouth suddenly dry. "Fine. Yeah. You look fine."

Sherlock looked down at him, very pale and his face still unreadable. He said nothing at all, instead stepping away after a few more moments of silence, crossing the room to linger by his own chair.

He supposed there was no point in nagging Sherlock to wear a tie. Sherlock didn't wear ties... he wasn't entirely convinced the man even owned one, beyond what he'd worn to John's wedding. John wasn't sure Sherlock could even tie one himself, and to tie it for him was really just one step further than he wanted to go tonight.

"You can sit down, you know?" he prodded gently, glancing at Sherlock's stiff back. "You don't have to leave for another two hours, yeah?" But Sherlock did not answer him, he did not even move at all, and John's bemusement started to fade into concern. Again. "...Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained silent, faced away from him in the light of the sitting room, his back stiff and his arms crossed. For a moment, John wasn't sure if he'd even been heard at all. It certainly wouldn't have been the most unusual pose Sherlock had decided to tune out the rest of the world in...

But then he pivoted back around to face John, swiveling around on squeaky shoes to look down at him with those big eyes, his face hard and even paler than before. "John," he started, "is it... is it--" He curled a hand over his stomach, wrenching his shirt into a tight knot in his fist and licking his lips. "Is it normal, to feel... before a date, like I..."

"Oh my god." John sat up straighter, the knot in his stomach suddenly softening straight into warm fondness. "You're _nervous."_

"What?"

"You've got butterflies! You! Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes through a brief breath, his hand winding even tighter into his shirt. "What?" he snapped again, and there was a solid chance that Sherlock really didn't know what _butterflies_ meant. He looked away, his throat jumping and the line of his mouth gone even flatter. "Are you intentionally being difficult? I know my own name, John!"

"All right, all right--" John raised his hands in the universal gesture for peace. Sherlock clearly was not in the mood for teasing. "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, Sherlock. It's just a little surreal, you know? You're a bloody genius and you fight serial killers for fun, but you still get nervous over a first date, just like everybody else."

Sherlock, somehow, looked even more severely unamused than before. His face was white and angry, almost affronted, and he wrapped a second arm around his stomach. "Everybody else," he repeated, voice strained. "So feeling like this is normal."

"I'm afraid so, mate. Especially before a first date."

This did not seem very comforting for Sherlock to hear. If anything, he looked even more distressed, and suddenly spun to turn his back and pace back and forth in the kitchen. He was clearly still agitated and now almost looked like the old Sherlock, twisting about the flat possessed by a manic energy, and John wasn't sure whether to be amused or genuinely concerned. He hadn't been this nervous on his own wedding day.

He gave Sherlock another minute, hoping to see him work the nervous energy out. But the manic pacing continued, Sherlock whipping back and forth in the kitchen with his shirt still wrinkled in his white-knuckled grip, his eyes big and angry, and the situation very quickly slid from eccentric to worrying. Being a little bit worked up was normal. But this? For just a first date? Well over two hours before he even had to go?

John rose to his feet when Sherlock showed no signs of slowing down, still a whirlwind stalking up and down the kitchen. "All right," he said again, nudging one of the chairs out with his foot. "Let's just sit down, okay? It is normal, but working yourself up like this, it's just going to make you feel worse, Sherlock." On a whim, he turned to the cabinets, digging out a half-empty bottle of old whiskey and a glass. Sherlock wasn't the world's biggest drinker, but one glass, this early on, couldn't hurt.

"Here," he said, passing the tumbler over. "Just something to help you relax."

But Sherlock went stock still.

The twitching and tapping stopped, at least. So did everything else. He sat there in the chair that John had pulled out for him, and he stared at John like he'd just been offered a glass full of rat poison. He made no move to take the glass, and in fact looked like had no plans to, either. For one horrible, _horrible_ moment, he actually looked betrayed.

"Or... not?"

Sherlock stared at him, his face almost hollow. It was as if he'd completely forgotten how to talk. His throat jumped again, a thick, audible swallow, and he watched John's every move as he carefully, slowly, slid the glass away.

Maybe... Sherlock just didn't want to risk it? He really didn't drink often, after all; maybe he was worried it'd make him slow and stupid, for this date he was so nervous about. Maybe--

"John," he said suddenly, his voice low. With another sharp, stuttered breath, and he lowered his face to rub his mouth, his skin taking an almost greyish quality. "John, I think I'm going to be sick."

 _Whoa._ Okay, so the whiskey had definitely been a bad idea. Maybe all of this had been a bad idea. "All right, let's just... just take a breath, Sherlock. Calm down, okay? It's only one date." Now definitely not amused in any way, shape, or form, John got back to his feet, moving around to gently rub his back. Sherlock flinched a little at the first touch but did not throw him off, so he kept doing it, gingerly circling the tense, locked shoulders, willing him to take a breath. "Seriously, it's just a few hours at a nice restaurant. What's the worst that can happen?"

It was meant to be rhetorical, but Sherlock answered anyway, his voice low and rough. "Nothing." He rubbed his mouth again, shoulders hunching. "Not now."

John wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he also didn't think he'd get an answer if he pressed. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulders again, very gently.

A big part of him now wanted to tell Sherlock to call the date off. A little bit of nerves was okay, but here Sherlock was a full two hours early, dressed to the nines, unable to sit still, and so anxious he thought he was going to throw up. _Sherlock Holmes._ It wasn't jealousy, anymore; a very big part of John wanted to just send Sherlock back to his room to get dressed in something soft and comfortable, and then curl up on the sofa, and John would call his date for him to tell him that something had come up and then get takeaway and stay the night. Sherlock clearly didn't feel well at all and if there was anything John knew about relationships, it was that feeling _this anxious_ about a date was never a good sign.

But wouldn't that only hurt Sherlock, in the long run? Give him an out for this first attempt, and in doing so, encourage whatever fears and anxieties he had right now to run rampant whenever he tried again? Avoiding a phobia didn't make that phobia go away. It made it worse.

John wanted nothing more than to tell him to just call this entire date off, try again another day, and then, pull the bloody idiot into a hug.

But what he really wanted was for Sherlock to be happy. And the way to see that was not to put a premature end to the first time Sherlock had put himself out there in over a decade.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, kneading into a knot in his shoulders again. "Let's try this, all right? You'll go on your date, and the only thing you'll try to do is have a great time. You can talk about murder, and the skull, and whatever else you like, and if it puts him off, then, well, screw him."

_"John."_

"And I'll stay here, and an hour into it, I'll call you, and tell you Lestrade's got a case for us. So if it's not going well, if you still feel sick-- even if you're just not having fun. Then you'll have an excuse to leave. You can ditch him, come back to Baker Street, and watch bad telly with me, or whatever else you want to do." He squeezed Sherlock's shoulders again, trying to get a closer look at his face, but he remained unreadable, even to John. "Okay?"

Sherlock's mouth pulled down, flattening into a small, severe frown. He rocked gently for a moment, back and forth in the creaky, uneven chair, like he was swaying to a beat that only he could hear.

He did look less distressed than before, but only just. And John still couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was _wrong._

The Sherlock he'd met years ago at Barts never, ever, would've needed that. The mere offer would've confused him. If he'd been bored or agitated during a dinner, he'd have just stood up and left, excuse be dammed. He probably would've come right out and said _you're boring me,_ tossed his napkin onto the table, and left.

And John knew Sherlock was not the same person that he'd moved in, all those years ago. He was an incredibly different man than the one who'd risen from the dead just three years ago. He was more aware of people's feelings, and more reluctant to hurt them, but... but surely that wasn't all this was.

Sherlock was not supposed to be so worried about _a date_ that John promising an easy out if he needed it made him feel this much better. First date of his life or no.

"Is this normal, too, then?" Sherlock asked finally. He glanced back at John over his shoulder, his jaw tight and knuckles white. "Is that a normal thing, that normal people do, on a normal first date?"

"Believe it or not, yeah, actually. Sarah asked me to do it for her once."

Sherlock frowned again, just barely flicking his gaze back to meet his. "Why didn't you ever ask me to do it, then?"

"Because I didn't have to, you tended to do it all on your own, you git." John gave his ear a gentle cuff and circled the table to join him, taking the glass of whiskey for himself. "You even interrupted my own wedding with a case, remember?"

Something flickered across his face, very quickly, gone so fast John couldn't tell what it was. He dropped his chin back against his fist, staring down at a beaker of something dark and murky before him. "My intention was never to interrupt your wedding."

"I... I know that, Sherlock." Sherlock knew that he knew that, didn't he? He had to. "Of course not, you--"

Sherlock downed the whiskey from his hand in a single gulp, and crossed back to ball in his armchair without another word.

* * *

Sherlock did end up going on the date after all. He sat twitchily in his chair with his head in his knees, nothing at all like a man excited to go on a date should look, and John felt worse and worse by the bloody minute, but when it came time to go, he didn't even need to be reminded. Sherlock got to his feet and shouldered on his coat and scarf like a suit of armor. He buttoned the Belstaff as high as he could and pulled his scarf into an even tighter knot than usual, his back to John, and whatever nerves there'd been in him before, they were hidden now underneath the veneer of the famous coat and his steely eyes.

But he wavered, at the very bottom of the stairs.

Just like that day at Cambridge. He'd been reluctant to get into the lift to begin with, but when it had stopped off at the floor for the chemistry labs, for that one moment, he hadn't been able to make himself move.

John took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

_It's what he needs._

_This is what's best for Sherlock._

He forced a smile, bit by bit. Every inch felt like swallowing a lemon, but he did it anyway, and he joined Sherlock at his side, gently prodding him into the street with just a wave of his phone. "One hour," he promised.

Sherlock stared back at him for several interminable, utterly silent seconds. He said nothing at all. But the look on his face, in that one moment-- the way he looked at John--

He didn't want to go. The very last thing in the world Sherlock wanted to do was step outside and go on this date, and... and John didn't understand why, but the very last thing he wanted to do was to let him.

The seconds ticked by. Sherlock stared at him, the look on his face shredding John's heart to bits, and waited.

Sod it. _No._ He was not going to make Sherlock do this.

"Sh--"

The look on Sherlock's face cleared, and he swung back around to face the outside world with nothing more than a billow of his coat.

_"Taxi!"_

* * *

John waited back in the sitting room, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and his mobile lying silent in the other.

If he'd thought Sherlock helping to get ready for his date was torture, than this was even wore than that.

Just sitting here. Knowing Sherlock was out with another man. Eating dinner with him, sitting together in a nice restaurant, wearing blue. Holding hands, possibly. _Kissing._

John despised him.

And maybe a big part of it was jealousy. But that wasn't all of it, was it? No.

He might have treated Sherlock horribly in the past. Unforgivably, in ways he could never make up for. But one thing that John knew was that he'd _definitely_ make Sherlock happier than Dr. Slug in a Suit. He would _never_ give Sherlock cause to be so worried about a simple date that the world's only consulting detective was trembling in his own kitchen.

John swallowed a hard mouthful of whiskey, clutching the glass tightly to his stomach, and stared at the waiting black screen of his phone.

Dinner. Sherlock hated fancy restaurants. He barely even tolerated dinner. Dinner. With a fucking candle for the table. _Dinner._

He missed Irene Adler.

At the hour on the dot, John called Sherlock. This time, there was no question.

The stab that went through his stomach when Sherlock let the call go to voicemail was _definitely_ jealousy.

"Uh, hey, Sherlock. It's John. Sorry for disturbing you, just wanted to let you know Lestrade's got a case for us, and it looks pretty interesting. Ah, let me know, yeah? Otherwise, I guess I'll see you tomorrow? ...'Night."

So it was turning out to be a good date, after all.

Hour and a half. John refilled his whiskey.

Two hours. Still, his mobile remained stubbornly silent.

Two hours was long enough for dinner. Wasn't it? It wasn't as if they were going to catch a movie afterwards or stop by a pub for a drink. Not Sherlock. Two hours was long enough for dinner. They'd be getting the check right now, and soon, they'd be hailing taxis, separate taxis, and Sherlock would be on his way back home. Of course.

Two and a half.

John's fist clenched tighter around his third glass of whiskey.

A _very_ good date, then.

It wasn't until his watch ticked to ten o'clock, the audacity of it burning a hole in John's stomach, that he gave in.

Whatever it was that Sherlock had been so worried about happening tonight clearly had not been a problem after all. Sherlock was... enjoying himself. He was out on a date, that John had all but dragged him to go on, kicking and screaming, and apparently everything had just been a smash hit, because Sherlock was still there. With Dr. Slug in a Suit. Having a _good time._

He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried very, very hard not to picture Sherlock, in Dr. Slug in a Suit's flat. Sharing a drink or two, perhaps, a glass of whiskey of their own, or fucking Christ, _definitely_ not rolling around in Dr. Slug in a Suit's bed. His long, pale back, gleaming with sweat, arcing above the sheets. _No,_ absolutely _not._

Except--

It was for the best if he was. Wasn't it?

John hated him. But this man had never hit Sherlock. Not once. This man had never thrown him down onto the cold, metal floor, feeling his ribs crack under his foot, and then just turned around and walked away. John had given up any right he'd ever had to have that Sherlock the day he'd wrote that fucking letter. He still could scarcely believe it that Sherlock even allowed him to be his friend at all.

No matter how nervous Dr. Slug in a Suit had made Sherlock earlier today, whatever it was about him or this that had worried Sherlock, if it even was anything he'd _done,_ because maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just who Sherlock was, and inevitable result of a man in his late thirties going on his _first_ first date, when his every experience thus far told him that relationships only ended in pain.

But whatever the case was, even Dr. Slug in a Suit was better for Sherlock than John.

John closed his eyes, swishing the last remnants of his glass, and forced himself to stay calm.

This was for the best.

At fifteen minutes to eleven, just before John had been about to finally call the entire damn evening a wash, the door downstairs to the street creaked open.

John jerked upright out of a half-doze, clutching his glass and his phone back to his chest to blink furiously in the dark. No messages still. 10:45. That was late enough to be a very good date, not so late that--. _God._ He ran a vigorous hand over his face, trying to bat away the sleep and jealousy and everything else that he already knew was a waste of time, because Sherlock would deduce it on him at a first glance.

Sitting there in the dark, listening to Sherlock walk steadily up the stairs, John didn't know what he was about to see. An upset Sherlock, after a long and nerve-wracking date... or a contented one.

And what made him feel sick was that he honestly couldn't say which one he wanted to see.

The door swung open, and John took as deep a breath as he could.

"How'd it--"

He stopped short.

Because the Holmes that stood in the doorway was not Sherlock.

_"Mycroft?"_

His own set of nerves flipped around on its head, unhappy anxiety sent straight into a sullen grumble. What the hell was Mycroft doing here? "Sherlock's not here," he started, relaxing back into his chair. "If you want to give him a case or--"

"I _know,"_ Mycroft spat, and John flinched.

What?

The politician stalked into the flat, flicking the lights on with a jerk of his hand. The sudden bright glow put Mycroft in harsh relief, and transformed from him a shadowy silhouette with an umbrella into a stiff, shockingly _angry_ figure. He looked at John paler than Sherlock had been this afternoon, but while Sherlock had been shaken, Mycroft stared back down at him now and the only word there was for it was anger.

Mycroft was _furious._

"I am here," the man said, with an agonising sort of slowness, "to speak to you, John." He drew closer, enunciating each word in a very precise way, like every syllable was the slam of a knife. "Because I would like to find out why _exactly_ Sherlock is spending the evening with Dr. Oscar Wilson, and how on earth he talked you into letting him."

* * *

_**2000** _

* * *

It was just a few minutes short of midnight, when Oscar finally set his papers down to fall all across the table before them, put his feet up, and leaned backwards with an exhausted sigh.

"There we are," he said, shooting Sherlock a lazy grin. He dropped one arm around his shoulders, pulling him in closer to his side for a squeeze. "That took a lot longer than I thought it would; I'm beat. How're you doing, Sherlock?"

He dropped his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, one hand still rubbing his other shoulder, very, very gently. It was an odd sensation: too much tactile stimuli to properly translate. Sherlock had hated it, at first, but he was learning to appreciate it for what it was.

"Almost done." He showed Oscar the paper he was nearly finished notating, and the appreciative murmur made something go warm inside. He'd have finished it hours ago but between classes, and research, and teaching Oscar's class, and-- but it was fine. He wasn't a normal student. He was better, he was smarter than _all of them_ and knew it, he was special. He could do it. Of course he could do it.

Oscar smiled again, kissing his cheek."Good work, Sherlock." He kissed his cheek again. "That reminds me-- the monthly research presentations are tomorrow, for the department. I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it; you think you can swing by? I need someone there who I know can handle it."

"I..." Sherlock swallowed, the warmth of the praise suddenly faded. "It didn't go well, last time. I tried, but I couldn't answer their questions. It's--" It wasn't even questions about the science. He could try, for most of those, but it was beyond that. They'd asked him about the budget, and grant proposals, and protocols that he'd never learned. They'd asked him, and he'd fumbled on the answers, and they'd looked at him like he was an idiot. "I can't--"

"Sherlock, _of course_ you can. I've told you before, your problem is that you just don't push yourself. You're capable of _so much,_ I know it... you just need someone who will push you." He grinned again, thumbing Sherlock's cheek. "In that respect, you're lucky you found me."

He was kissed again, something hot and lingering and wet on his throat, and a hand slid down his back, tucking just an inch into his waistband. His face was just so close and _wet._ Sherlock tried to swallow again, to force the wave down, but feeling his throat move against Oscar's mouth made him feel even worse.

He didn't like... this. The hugs and kisses on the sofa. The late-night meetings, that more and more often took place here in Oscar's flat instead of in his office. He'd tried to learn to appreciate these, too, but he just couldn't.

But Oscar told him it was all right, that he was special, and he was right, wasn't he? Sherlock _was_ abnormal, in every sense of the word. Oscar wouldn't do this with just anyone, and telling him no felt like a rejection of that. Being slow and stupid and _normal._

Besides, this was what people did, wasn't it? He'd never had so much as a friend, before, never mind a relationship, but he'd observed it in others, and this was something people did. This was something that made people happy. It wasn't Oscar's fault that he couldn't be normal about it, but Sherlock was a good student, wasn't he? He could learn. Oscar said he was brilliant and special and that he loved him-- the least Sherlock could do was try to properly reciprocate.

Oscar kissed him again, his two fingers rubbing a little lower, first underneath his belt, then his pants. Sherlock tried very hard to focus on the last column of the article.

It was just touching. People touched all the time. That was what normal people did. He didn't want to be a _freak,_ did he? Oh, he was sure there were plenty of people that would call this freakish and sick and wrong; two _men_ , sitting here, kissing, touching. But they were idiots, and he wasn't going to listen to what they thought. No. This was normal. _Breathe through it. Come on. Stop that, Sherlock... be_ _ **normal.**_

He had just about managed to entirely mute the channels of input that related to Oscar's hands and tongue when a finger pushed from tracing his backside, to _inside him._

Sherlock jerked off the sofa so hard he nearly fell flat on his face.

Oscar blinked up at him with wide eyes, looking utterly taken-aback and. Rejected? Insulted? Hurt? What, _what?_ "Sherlock?" he started. "What's wrong?"

"I--" He scrambled back another step, breaths suddenly lurching in his chest. " _No!_ Don't do that!"

"What's the matter? It's only... _oh._ Oh, Sherlock." He wiped his mouth, looking up at him with realization dawning over his face as fully as a light being switched to on. He sat up and looked at Sherlock with soft eyes and a softer smile, beckoning out to him for him to rejoin him on the sofa. "Come here. It's okay."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to _come here._ His skin crawled and his face was hot and he wanted to fix his belt and re-button his shirt and run from the bloody flat.

"Sherlock," he said again, even quieter now. "It's your first time, isn't it?"

"First time what?" He took another step back, his heart pounding. "That-- that hurt. I didn't like that. I--" Sherlock gulped in a breath of air, trying to unstick the words from his throat, but he couldn't find the right ones to say. What did normal people say, what would a normal person say here? How would a normal person stop this? Damn it, _damn it_ \--

Oscar moved a bit on the sofa, pressing sideways to make more room for Sherlock. He still held his arm out to him and never once stopped smiling. "It's all right," he promised again, warm and welcoming. "It's really all right, Sherlock-- nobody likes it their first few times. You just have to learn how, you know? This is something that adults do. And I've told you before, I know a lot of students, Sherlock-- you're _so much more_ than all of them. You're special."

It didn't help. It didn't help the anxious fluttering of his heart beat or the tight knot in his stomach at all.

"Come on," Oscar said, sitting back. "Oh, you're lucky this is happening with me, Sherlock. I'll be careful with you, I promise. Nothing that you don't want to do."

But he didn't want to... do this. To do any of this. He wanted to-- to--

Sherlock swallowed again, his throat suddenly bone dry, and sat numbly back down on the couch.

"There we go," he said, very gently looping his arm back around his. "You're still stiff as a board, you know... there's no need to be worried. It's _okay,_ Sherlock. I'll take it as slowly as you want."

The moments slid by. Sherlock counted them in each loud thud of his heart, and nothing changed. Oscar kept rubbing him, and Sherlock just sat there and didn't know what he was supposed to do back. He wanted an instruction manual, a class syllabus with point by point instructions on what exactly he was supposed to do, the faces he was supposed to make, how he was supposed to act. But there wasn't one, and Sherlock was pretty sure if he was handed one at this point it wouldn't even be helpful, because clearly he'd done something wrong about twenty steps ago if he'd somehow made his way to here.

But--

This what adults did. This was what _people_ did. He wasn't a freak or a baby; wasn't that what part of what he'd wanted to prove by coming to Cambridge at all? To find people like him? To prove that he wasn't alone? Excluding Mycroft, but what the _hell_ did he care about what Mycroft thought, because Mycroft would probably look down his nose at this, but Mycroft was annoying and a spy, Mycroft was--

"Your brain's still going a mile a minute, isn't it? I can see it." He moved even closer, his voice dropped to a low husk and his moist lips moving against his ear. "What are you thinking about?"

"My brother," he gasped. Why? Why were the words suddenly sticking again and why was it hard to breathe? He worked a shaking hand at his collar, feeling hot and filthy, but Oscar's hand folded over his own and slid another button undone.

"Your brother? God, Sherlock, you really do need to relax." He smiled against his skin for a moment, lingering, too close. "Hang on for a moment. I've got an idea."

Oscar sat fully upright, withdrawing his arms from around him. It was an instant relief, but the sensation was short-lived, as he only reached across the scattered papers towards his previously abandoned drink, and the bottle of whiskey next to it.

"Here you go," he said, pressing the glass into his hands. "Just a little something to help you relax."

It was an almost full glass of hard whiskey. Sherlock knew it would help him relax. He didn't drink, and he didn't drink because he knew the science of it, and even if he didn't, he heard the proof of it outside his window every night: alcohol made people slow and stupid. With Sherlock's weight, complete lack of tolerance, and the fact that he hadn't eaten since lunch, that was enough alcohol to turn him into a boneless idiot.

"Something wrong?"

"I..."

"It's okay," Oscar said again. He moved even closer, pressing his lips back against his hair. "Come on, Sherlock... have a drink. Unwind a bit. And, while we're waiting for it to kick in, maybe we could chat about the research project you wanted to start, hmm? Does that sound all right?"

Sherlock took another deep, steadying breath, and looked back down at the golden-brown shine of whiskey in his hand.

"Okay," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> Next up: the date. :)
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! I think I got to everyone, but if I missed someone, I sincerely apologize <3 
> 
> (now with a typo regarding the timeline fixed; mea culpa!)
> 
> Onwards!

John's whiskey had not helped.

Neither had the pep talk. Or the promise to ring him later. Or the gentle squeeze of his hand at the door, actually.

None of it had helped in even the slightest sense of the word.

Sherlock still stood just inside the restaurant, surrounded by gentle piano music and waiters in tuxedos and London's idiotic upper class, and felt just a little bit like he was going to throw up.

He didn't want to be here.

Oscar already was. Waiting at a table just out of the corner of his eye, already with a whiskey of his own, and looking perfectly calm and content. Sherlock wanted to say that he was not on a date-- the dress and manner were all wrong, and he even wore his bloody wedding ring-- but the fact of the matter was, Sherlock's deductions about personal relationships concerning himself had never been trustworthy, and that had started with Dr. Oscar Wilson.

He tugged gently on his coat, wrapping it even tighter around himself, and forced his leaden feet to move.

"Oh, Sherlock. Lovely boy! For a moment there I thought you'd stood me up!" Oscar smiled at him as if he'd entered with solid gold in his hands, and in just a heartbeat was already on his feet to give him another hug, right there in front of everyone. "So glad that you could make it."

It was just how everything had been before, he realised dully. Made to stand out and feel important. Feel that someone thought he was _special._

He didn't feel remotely special at all.

He forced a smile, anyway. Bit by bit, like pulling teeth, every inch forcibly arranged and dragged through the mud to do it. "And I'm equally surprised," he murmured, lowering himself to sit. "I expected to be left waiting for at least thirty minutes. Have you at last learned punctuality, or has someone just finally given you a watch?"

Oscar's smile back did not even waver. Perhaps passive aggressive jibs were the norm, among the typical dysfunctional relationships of today. Indeed, another was quick to return to him, this time around the edges of a sour smile as they now both made to sit down. "You still stand out like a sore thumb. You know, you're supposed to check your coat, Sherlock."

"Yes, well." He again tugged on his collar, pulling it even closer around his throat. "My appearance is very important to me."

Was this what John had wanted? John had told him that _normal people_ had relationships. It wasn't _normal_ to not want one, and this, _romantic entanglement,_ was meant to _complete him as a human being._

Was _this_ really what he'd meant?

A chilled, stifling atmosphere settled. Sherlock ordered a whiskey of his own, because the only thing worse than the mind-numbing stupidity of alcohol was to keep feeling like this. He just wanted to relax, yes? Right, _John?_ Normal people felt like this. This was normal. John said so.

He drained half his glass in a single gulp, and it made his throat burn so viciously he nearly gagged it straight back up.

Oscar flattered him, first. Careful compliments, designed to make him feel important and special; telling him how wonderful he was, how unique, how _smart,_ as if he needed that assurance from _him._ Sherlock wasn't surprised. He'd already deduced exactly what this meeting really was all about, all the way back when he'd first handed him his business card. It wasn't a date. It hadn't even been intended as one at all.

Sherlock supposed he didn't feel too badly about it. They were both using the other, here.

He finished his drink, and very swiftly ordered another.

"I see you finally found your taste for whiskey," Oscar pointed out, amused eyebrow raised. "You're welcome."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek so hard he nearly drew blood.

"Yes," he spat. He could barely hear himself speak, his voice distant and tiny in his ears as if from a hundred miles away. "You were right, Oscar. It certainly does help me to... relax."

And if he looked at it that way--

Well, it was true. With every sip of whiskey, he was no longer such a nervous wreck there was a solid chance of him vomiting right there at the table.

The things he felt in replacement weren't exactly positive. But he wasn't anxious. So there was at least that.

 _John would be so proud,_ he thought bitterly.

The experiment continued.

And as the evening wore on, the results were...

Inconclusive.

Because surely this experience wasn't normal. He wanted to believe that this, and feeling like this, was not how a Proper Date would normally go. That how Oscar made him feel wasn't normal, and he felt like this because of Oscar and Victor, not because this was how he was supposed to feel, what John wanted him to feel. Because this was... he felt _horrible._ Normal people could not possibly enjoy this. Could they? _Could they?_

But--

There was a null hypothesis, too.

That this _was_ normal, and Sherlock was the one who wasn't.

Half an hour in. Almost done with the second whiskey. Fifty minutes since Sherlock had left the flat, which meant ten until John would call him. Their orders came. Sherlock had never been less interested in food in his life. Couples that sat around them were quiet and romantic and polite, holding hands and kissing over plates of overpriced salmon and salad, while Oscar continued to sit there and sip soup and butter Sherlock up like a slice of toast.

He wanted--

He wanted to be at Angelo's. With John. Or nowhere at all. He wanted to be in the flat. With John. And Rosie, with Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He wanted it to be before Mary and Moriarty, where he could just eat takeaway with John and shred that horrible late-night show he watched and it was comfortable and easy and-- and _safe._ If he had to go on a date at all, which he didn't bloody want to in the first place, because it felt like _this,_ then that was what he wanted.

He _hated_ this.

"So," Oscar began. Thirty-five minutes in. Finally-- cutting to the chase. "I was curious, Sherlock. I searched your name up, a few days ago, and I saw that you're still publishing. Are you with a university, or...?"

Ah. So _that_ was his game.

Sherlock swallowed a bite that tasted like cardboard, and wrangled another strained smile. It felt like he was fishing the words from molasses. "No. I have the funds and facilities to research without anyone's support, and my interests wouldn't be very well supported by a university's lab." Which meant his kitchen, and his trust fund. Oscar didn't need to know that. Oscar also didn't need to know that the majority of his experiments included some variety of mould or amputated limb.

But Oscar remained undeterred. Still with that vile, plastic _smile._ "Of course," he said, so easily, "of course. You always were a bit of a loner-- couldn't play nice with others." He paused for another moment, clearly piecing together the request in his head.

Four minutes.

Sherlock put his fork down with a faint clatter, and decided to stop pretending.

"You're going to ask me if I'm interested in a collaboration," he said flatly. "I'm afraid the answer is no."

"Oh, Sherlock." His smile softened, the edges curling into something familiar. A smile that he had seen from him many, many times before. This was the first time that he was able to recognise it as condescending. "You don't even know what I was--"

"I know that you were going to ask me for a collaboration. The answer is no. I don't do research collaborations." Sherlock stopped briefly, unsure if he really wanted to test this further, to go on, but in the end-- _god,_ he was tired of this game. "The last time I considered it was with Victor. We talked about a collaboration we would do together. But I'm sure you heard how that ended up not working out."

Oscar's smile dimmed, just a little. Like a switch had been flipped, and the adoration in his eyes started on its inevitable slide back down into disgust.

"Victor," he repeated, and cold fury started to root in Sherlock's chest. "I was very worried for you when I heard that you'd started associating with him, Sherlock. You were much too good for him."

His nails dug a sharp scratch into the crook of his own arm.

Two minutes.

He wanted to stab him.

There was a knife on the table, and he wanted to pick it up, and he wanted to stab him. Right now. Right in the stomach. Where it would be bloody, and gruesome, and violent. He wanted to feel the blade dig inside him and watch the pain contort on his face and hear him scream, and why the _fuck_ was he here? Why the _fuck_ was he sitting here, wearing a _nice shirt_ on a _date?_ Why was he here?!

Because this made John happy. Because John wanted him to be normal, and this was what normal people did. Dates. Relationships. _Normal._

All those people around them right now could sit here on dates, and be bloody _normal,_ and he wasn't. He never had been and he never would be. And if this was what it was, he didn't want to be.

"Well," he spat, when he finally found his voice again. "As lovely as it is to mix business with pleasure. As I've said, I'm not interested in any sort of business partnership, Oscar. So, unless there was something else you wanted to ask me...?"

"Something else?"

"Yes." Sherlock paused pointedly, and when that did not work, cast yet another look at just where, exactly, they were. The couples around them. The candles on the tables. His own hand, laid suggestively down, palm up. Waiting.

Something else.

It felt like he was grinding glass with his teeth.

 _"Oh,"_ Oscar breathed. And _oh,_ there it _was._ Finally, the shoe dropped. It clicked, and he understood. Finally, finally, finally. "Oh, Sherlock--" And he set his own fork down as well, to just look at him, and shake his head pityingly. Shake his head like he was a very foolish, very stupid child. "Sherlock. I'm flattered, really. But you can't honestly think this was... I'm married, now! Let's leave the past where it belongs, yes?"

"Of course," Sherlock said quietly.

He waited.

Another minute.

"That was never--" Oscar stopped and swallowed, clearly made uncomfortable by the continuing silence, the expectation for more. "That was never even a real relationship, you know. Which you didn't want anyway, did you? You were never normal."

"That's right."

Never mind stabbing him.

He wanted to punch him. He wanted to swing his fist back, and punch him in the face. Wanted to see his skin beaten black and blue, and for his fist to hurt, and to know it was because of him.

He hadn't come here expecting to be angry, tonight. It had been a very long time since he'd been this angry at anyone, and he wasn't sure he'd _ever_ been this angry at someone for his own sake. But he was furious now and he was just too tired to reign it in anymore.

Sherlock knew he deserved very little. But he absolutely, he _must,_ at least deserve more than _this._

"Honestly, Sherlock!" Once again, baited out by the continued silence. People were so _predictable,_ weren't they. Never could sit through and wait an expectant silence out. Always had to keep on running their mouths and giving him exactly what he wanted. "You know who I am. And I know who you are, too-- I've seen the news about you. You think I could honestly be seen associating with someone like you? A drug addict? A _junkie?"_ His face soured and he picked up his fork again, looking almost disgusted. "You're just the same as Victor."

For one very crucial moment, it felt like time stopped. It felt like Sherlock was standing on Magnussen's patio, watching him flick John in the eye. It felt like watching John at the pavement below St. Barts' rooftop and knowing there was a sniper on his head. It felt like he had been forcibly evicted from his body and was watching _everything_ go wrong, and all he wanted to do was snap Oscar's neck.

He was sick. He was _furious._ He was a horrible, wretched person, he took and took and took, and he turned everything he touched to mud, and in that one single instant he could've done it again. He wanted to rip Victor's name right out of his mouth. He could've killed Oscar right there in the middle of the restaurant and enjoyed it.

_You're the reason Victor is dead._

His phone went off, and that was it. The moment ended.

His phone went off, because of John.

As always.

John was the one to save him.

Slowly, still feeling a bit as if from far away, Sherlock lifted his phone up, showing the incoming call to Oscar. "My apologies," he heard himself say, his voice tiny and distant. "If you'll excuse me a moment." He stood back up on legs that feel empty and numb, shivering inside his coat, and he withdrew.

His original plan had been to take the call, and go. Now he couldn't even answer it. Now he just stood there, watching _John Watson_ flash across his phone's screen, and he let the name alone fill his chest until that was all that was inside him.

Sherlock had come here tonight to prove that he could. He had never intended to continue this charade past this restaurant, but he had come to this date to make John happy, and-- to prove that he could. To prove that he could be _normal._ He had never meant to bait Oscar into insulting him, or talking about Victor. He certainly hadn't wanted it to end with his brain contracted around a needle point of white-hot fury, but here he was, shivering just outside the men's toilets, nauseated and furious and John's name in his hands the only lifeline he had.

Was this really what it was like? Was _this_ that crucial thing in life, that he was missing?

He wanted to say it was Oscar. Oscar was the bad variable, here. He was at fault for the failed experiment, and if Sherlock had come here with anyone else, anyone else at all, it wouldn't have been like this.

But that wasn't true. Was it?

Oscar wasn't the first time. And he hadn't been the last. Oscar was not the only relationship in his life to disintegrate because Sherlock hadn't been enough. Not good enough. Not _normal_ enough.

Victor was dead. He'd tried with Victor, and Victor was dead. And he could blame Oscar if he said so, but at the heart of it was, Oscar hadn't injected the heroin. Oscar hadn't even seen him for years. Sherlock was the one who'd been there. He'd lived with him. And Victor had still killed himself.

Mary had shot him in the chest, nearly killed him, and then taken a bullet for him. John's wife. Rosie's _mother_. Yet another person that Sherlock had let himself get close to and yet she'd still looked him in the face and shot him, and he'd forgiven her for it because what else was he supposed to do? What else had _she_ been meant to do? His own life, for John's happiness? He'd have sacrificed it willingly. He had. But she'd looked at him and seen someone just as expendable as Oscar had and now she was dead.

And John--

John was still alive. But how badly had he been hurt because he'd been just _friends_ with the great Sherlock Holmes? John had hit him. John had beaten him and told him it was his fault. John had been ready to leave him in that hospital for good and if that was the case, why the hell was he here now? Why was he _still here?_

Over and over, the bad variable was _him._

_1 Missed Call: John Watson_

_1 New Voicemail: John Watson_

Sherlock tilted his head back against the cool wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

He was done.

Or maybe he just shouldn't have had three whiskeys on an empty stomach, because they turned him even stupider and full of self-loathing than even _his_ baseline. 

And there was that _fucking word again--_

Sherlock scanned the restaurant, his eyes narrowed as they slid over Oscar again and again, filtering deductions in until he found what he was searching for. He sniffed once, tugging hard on his coat, trying to sober himself up on the feel of the Belstaff alone. It had been easier to shower off a high with Janine.

Then he strode back across the restaurant, slid in a detour around Oscar's back, and instead toward the table of the two journalists from the Sun.

"Hello," he said. He glanced between them both for a moment, his voice low, and oriented himself at the woman. She was similar to Kitty Riley-- absolutely vicious, and would do anything for a good story. It just so happened that most of her stories were actually rubbish since she worked for the Sun. Perhaps giving her a story that could actually be fact-checked would help her career. "Recognise me?"

"Sherlock Holmes," she started, her eyes gone wide. Instantly, she moved for her phone, brightening straight up in the light of a good scoop. "Are you here on a case? Have a story for us, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hmm. Something like that." He smiled very carefully, very slightly, and gave a gentle tap to her phone. He hoped neither could smell the alcohol on him. "Do you recognise my date as well? Highly respected Cambridge professor, Nobel prize winner, happily married for fifteen years?" He waited for the pieces to click to wink. "Just keep your eyes on me, please."

Then, he drew himself up to his full height, and more confident than he'd ever been in his _life,_ he walked back to his former professor.

"My apologies," he said again, around a thoroughly fake and insincere, condescending sneer. He'd learned how to do it from Oscar. "Oscar?"

Oscar barely even glanced at him. Now that he'd learned he wasn't going to be able to use Sherlock to boost his reputation anymore, he'd completely flipped the switch, from adoring back to barely disguised disgust. "Hmm," he murmured, and took another sip of his own drink.

Sherlock leaned down, and in very full view of the entire restaurant, but very especially the two reporters from the Sun, kissed him.

He kissed him long and hard and breathless. He held his collar and he shoved his tongue into his mouth. He felt Oscar's surprised intake of breath against his face, but he never tried to stop him, he never even protested, so Sherlock kissed him and hated every slimy, wet second of it, and he kept kissing him until his lungs strained for air and stepped back with one final suck at his mouth.

And then, flushed, very definitely on his way to drunk, and just an inch away from Oscar's face, he finally _spoke up._

"I know that you have been struggling to find research collaborations for years, in no small part because you are a second-rate scientist that attaches yourself to the hard work of others, and that reputation has finally spread. I know that the only reason you're still employed is because Cambridge enjoys the prestige of an award that you didn't even earn. I _know,_ Oscar," he hissed. He slid his hand up to curl into Oscar's hair, and he pulled. He pulled because he knew it hurt, and he knew it hurt because Oscar had done it to him to get him to shut his mouth. "I know what you are."

Oscar tried to squirm back, tried to tug his head out of Sherlock's grip, his eyes wide. "You!" he gasped, jerked back. "How dare you?! You're a drug addict, a _dropout!_ You begged me to sleep with you and _still_ couldn't pass-- are you shagging Dr Watson now? Is that how it works?" He flinched even harder back but his mouth was curling again in another sneer, another jab, another sore spot that he thought would hurt. "He does all the work and lets you take half the credit because you're so good in bed?"

Sherlock took in another very deep, very calming breath. He smelled the alcohol between them and for a moment, just a moment, wanted to say sod the reporters, and throw up all over his lap.

"You," Sherlock said, very quietly, "are an ephebophilic narcissist that inflicts your attractions on barely legal students so your poor wife doesn't find out. You are a disgusting excuse for a human being, and you should count yourself very, very lucky that _Dr Watson_ doesn't know it."

He pulled another inch back, swished once around his mouth, and spat in his soup.

Then, he once again pulled himself up to his full height, and turned his back on him without another word.

* * *

_**2003** _

* * *

Greg opened the door to his flat at one in the morning, well past his bedtime and very far past the limits of his patience, to find that on his doorstep was one very bedraggled, very disheveled, very tired Sherlock Holmes.

He sighed.

Sherlock knocked his fist on the doorframe again. Then he knocked it a third time. Just a slow, steady, rhythmic knocking, even though the door was already open and the person he apparently wanted to summon was right there looking at him.

He was high, then.

God damn it.

"Sherlock," he sighed again.

The kid looked... god, he looked like he always looked. He looked utterly brilliant, utterly intoxicated, and utterly off his rocker, all at the same time. His ragged clothes were about the level of something he'd fished out of the Thames and the coat was just _sad,_ too short for the beanpole that he was but swallowing up his shoulders and chest anyway, because he was rail-thin. His muddy hair fell over his eyes and his hanging head, knotted with leaves and twigs-- perhaps he'd slept in a park-- and his angular face, with hollow cheeks and heavy eyes, was flushed with the heat of a high.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock reeled left, then right. He sucked his lower lip in, looking confused and more than that, exhausted. He dropped his hand.

"...Graham," he said.

God damn it.

"Yeah. It's me." He stood back, extending a hand out to Sherlock. "You might as well come in."

Because what would Sherlock do if he didn't extend the invitation? By the looks of him, Greg would probably leave for work in the morning and find him still keeled over on his front step. At the very least, Greg could make sure he had a warm, safe place to sleep tonight, and some biscuits or toast to eat in the morning.

Sherlock staggered inside after him, his head still hanging and his reeling slow and uncoordinated enough for him to know that whatever he'd taken, it wasn't his usual stimulants. Probably heroin, Greg thought, with a tsk of his tongue. Cocaine was dangerous, on the edge, and fun. Heroin was none of those things. Heroin killed people.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Sherlock?". He didn't even try to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Sherlock seemed to live off of cocaine and praise; maybe the opposite of praise would help give him an extra nudge. "You could be anything you wanted, you know. You're smart enough, you could've done something that actually helps people, but instead--"

Sherlock suddenly reeled upright, halfway through toeing off his borderline rotten trainers, held together by duct-tape and more mud. He swung around to stare at Lestrade with furious eyes, gleaming in the dark on something even more potent than heroin. "I can be whatever I want," he snarled, and suddenly advanced. "Yes? I'm _smart._ I'm smarter than _you._ I'm smarter than your whole office. I'm better than all of you, no matter how much your boys _hate me,_ and you hate that, don't you?" He grinned, a vicious, feral sort of smile, drew closer step by step, looming over Greg and his voice rising to a shout. "You hate that I'm so much better than you, and choose to do nothing with it. Well, _fuck you,_ Gary. I can be anything that I want and this is what I _choose_ to be. If you don't like it, then good luck ever solving a case without me again."

Then he swiveled back around without another word, and flopped down onto Greg's couch like a tree being felled.

For several moments, Greg had no idea what to do.

He vaguely recognised the look in Sherlock's eyes-- it was reminiscent of how the boy always seemed to look, at his most intoxicated, but this was... more, somehow. The hostility, the primal, aggressive hostility. He was like a wounded animal, licking its hurts in the corner and ready to lash out to prevent any more.

The scary thing was, he'd seen Sherlock hurt, before.

He'd never seen him like this.

At last, Greg decided the only move that would be wise was to just give Sherlock a few moments on his own. He backtracked several step to leave the genius slumped down on his couch, his arms wrapped around himself and his head down, knobby fingers clenched so hard into his threadbare shirt and still trembling. He left the lights off and started to boil the water for tea, something herbal, something non-caffeinated for this time of night, trying not to think too hard about what could've put Sherlock in this state.

He ambled back to Sherlock's side after a few minutes, two cups of tea in hand and frozen peas over one arm. Sherlock still had not moved. "Here you go," he said, sitting across from him and nodding to his face. Sherlock had a split lip, and knowing him, it was a fifty fifty chance between walking into someone's fist, and walking into a door. "Let's just--"

_"Don't touch me!"_

Sherlock flinched backwards so severely he nearly upended the tea to the floor, and Greg with it. He hit the back of the couch and stared at him with eyes blown wide, breaths short and angry and nostrils flared, and... and _hostile._ Hostile again, like a wounded animal.

If Sherlock had had a knife, or been hopped up on more stimulants than depressants, Greg suddenly got the very strong feeling that he would've found himself knocked to the floor.

"...Just an icepack," he said slowly, underneath Sherlock's high, panting breaths. He set it down on the table between them, a neutral space, and then sat back, to allow Sherlock's ball to remain undisturbed. "For your face, lad."

Sherlock stared at him still, his face bleached as white as the milk in his tea and his blue eyes sickeningly huge. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he'd even been heard at all.

Then, his breaths snarling out, he snatched his hands forwards. One for the tea, one for the ice. He hugged both close, tucking back into himself and refusing to look at Greg. Nothing about him looked remotely okay in any way.

How the hell had Greg gotten here? How had he gotten to having a lonely junkie on his couch, who was so desperately thin and young he looked like he needed his mum to make him a cup of tea and tuck him into bed for a very long nap? How had he adopted this foul-mouthed, snarling, hostile stray into his flat, a walking skeleton that hid a kernel of sheer _brilliance_ underneath the layers of anger and drugs?

"Sherlock," he started, a few sips of tea into it. When he thought he just might've calmed down, just a little bit. "I don't hate you. You frustrate me, and you're an obnoxious bastard, and... yeah, I guess I do hate what you do. I hate watching you waste who you could be and you scare the hell out of me, because I'm pretty sure you're going to kill yourself one day. But I don't hate you."

Sherlock snorted into his tea. His startlingly bright eyes stayed turned away and he switched hands, gripping his tea with the other while he supported the icepack against his face.

The motions made the lump of oversized clothes wearing thin shift as he uncurled just a little for the first time, and for the first time, Greg was able to see that he'd been holding something close to his chest this entire visit. A newspaper. This entire time, he had been cradling a newspaper, hugging it to his stomach without letting it go. A newspaper? Was there a case in there that he had some deduction for? Was that why he was here?

A few moments passed in total silence. Sherlock did not move to reclaim the paper, so Greg, unerringly careful not to touch him, picked it up himself. If Sherlock was not going to talk, then the least he could do was try to figure it out himself.

The headline was about the latest rugby game. Well, that was a no go. He wasn't entirely sure Sherlock could even name one of the country's top rugby teams. The next page was on the ongoing prime minister election, which was another no. If there was anything Sherlock had less interest in than sports, it was politics.

"London's own brings home the Nobel Prize: Cambridge professor wins laureate in chemistry," he read aloud, giving Sherlock a slight, purely verbal nudge. "That's right up your alley, innit? Chemistry? Think, Sherlock, that could've been you one day, if you'd wanted."

"Why?"

Greg blinked. He looked up at Sherlock to find the boy suddenly starting at him again, his piercing eyes bright and unsettling. "Why what?"

 _"Why?"_ The only spot of color on his face was the red mark on his lip. "Why should I have wanted that?"

Maybe this article was the reason Sherlock had come here after all.

He set the paper back down on his lap, picking through his words very, very carefully. "Not the prize, I suppose," he said, and it wasn't until then, looking at Sherlock, that he realised how accurate it really was. Sherlock was _that smart._ He had someone sitting on his sofa that was smart enough to win a bloody Nobel prize, and he was wasting every bit of himself into smack and heroin. "But the career. Discovering things, naming stuff after yourself, being a scientist. You know, productive member of society 'n all..."

Sherlock smiled faintly into his tea. "You have no idea what scientists do." He took another perfunctory sip, his bloodshot, weary eyes flickering away. "I know the chemist who made that initial discovery. That led to that article."

"You do?" Greg checked the paper again, scanning down the page. "You know Dr. Wilson?"

"No. I said I know the chemist who made the discovery." Sherlock clattered his cup down to the table in a sudden jerk, his eyes shuttered, like steel. His face had gone ice cold and back to hostile. "Victor Trevor."

Greg wasn't sure what to say. Sherlock clearly had something on his mind, but he also, just as clearly, was not going to just come out and say it. But whatever it was had obviously upset him. Whatever it was was probably the reason Sherlock had turned up on his doorstep, angry and bleeding and hostile, and flinching away when Greg so much as tried to hand him an icepack.

Another minute passed in thick silence. Sherlock stared motionlessly down to the table, his face still grim and expressionless, and Greg had honestly given up on getting any more out of him tonight when the next flat words came.

"He's dead now. A bit ago, when the nominees were announced. Heroin overdose." He sat there, perfectly silent, nothing in his eyes at all but that same cold, angry hostility that had glimmered there since he'd knocked on his door.

And then, something crumbled, and he dropped down to bury his face in his hands. "Fuck," he gasped, the word muffled, "I thought I'd--" He took a great, gasping breath again, shivering down to his core. He looked thin and sick and stricken. But the instant Greg started to raise a hand in alarm, Sherlock drew even further back, flinched hard back into his corner of the sofa. He hadn't even needed to lower his hands to see Greg making an approach.

"I said," he spat, " _don't touch me."_

For several seconds, it was just that. Sherlock, breathing heavily into his hands, hiding his face and very clearly one wrong move away from lashing out. And Greg--

Greg was really starting to get worried.

Because he was no Sherlock Holmes, but he could connect the dots.

Sherlock showed up here, upset, bewilderingly, about a newspaper article, talking all about a Cambridge professor's grounding achievement of the decade. Sherlock claimed to know the scientist responsible for the work, and said he was dead of a heroin overdose. Not exactly a common habit, among hugely successful scientists.

Sherlock turned up here, on heroin himself. Heroin. Which, to Greg's knowledge, he had never used before.

And Sherlock had read chemistry at Cambridge, hadn't he?

He didn't know what the story was, exactly, that these dots traced out. But there was a connecting thread here, and whatever the explanation was behind it all, it was the reason why Sherlock was huddled on his couch, his face in his hands, and snarling at Greg not to touch him.

Finally, _finally,_ Sherlock lowered his hands. He looked no more put together than before, quite frankly, but Greg wasn't sure even Sherlock could manage to look put together, with his hair a muddy bird's nest and his clothes the sodding wreck that they were. "As it--" he started, then cleared his throat, working something questionable and shuddering out of his voice. "As it so happens, actually. That's why I'm here."

"The... the article?"

"The _career,"_ Sherlock sighed, as if Greg were very, very stupid. "I have decided to take you up on your previous offer. I am going to be a proper consultant, and in exchange, I will get clean." His angry, bright eyes flickered back over to him, piercing into him like a steel blade. "You will help me get clean."

Greg gaped at him. _"What?"_ He sat forward again, catching himself just in time, but for a bizarre moment wanted to pull Sherlock into a hug. "Wait, really? You actually mean it?"

"Do I make a habit of lying, Giles?"

"No, I just--" But he was right, of course. Sherlock had gotten clean before, for two, three week stretches, but it was always only ever so Greg would let him in on a case, and with no disguising the fact that he would be sauntering right back into a crackhouse the moment it was done. This was the first time Sherlock had ever said he was trying to actually get clean for good.

Once again, Greg wanted to hug him.

"That's... _fantastic_ , Sherlock. No, really, I mean it, that's-- of course I'll help you. Whatever you need. I'll..." He looked around uselessly, as if _A Dummy's Guide to a Genius' Detox_ might just materialise right there on his coffee table. "Jesus, that's great. What are you thinking, Sherlock? A forensics degree? You could--"

But Sherlock flinched again, his fingers digging back deeply into his own arms. "I am never going back to school."

There was something there. Something about Cambridge, and this Victor, and whatever the missing connecting thread was. But Greg was too excited to let it damper his spirits, and he forged straight on, unwilling to hear the injury underneath the sulk. "Okay, well, you can do other things. Of course. The Yard consults with people, sometimes, and you're brilliant enough, you could wrangle out some sort of certificate or specialization. You could--"

 _"No,"_ Sherlock hissed. Again, flinching away. Again, his hackles raised and his teeth bared and his eyes gone hard as glass, and _furious_. "I'm not doing anything official. "

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. It's just a few hoops to jump through, and then you'll get paid and--"

"I said no!" Sherlock shouted, and just like that, the other shoe fell. The angry, hostile boy from before was back, on the defensive and very, very ready to go on the offensive instead. "I said no, did you hear me? No! I am not doing anything official. I will not be at anyone's beck and call, none of you will be able to tell me what to do, you will be on my time, do you understand me? I don't want to be paid or get credit. You will listen to me when I have something to say and then you will leave me alone." He reeled backwards again, rocking back and forth, starting to pant as his rant turned wild, his eyes manic and glowing in the dark. "I know what you want from me," he spat, "I know it. It's what _everyone_ wants, but you're not going to get it. _None_ of you will have control over me, do you understand?!"

This... this had _really_ gone off the rails. Greg didn't understand how or where this had gone wrong, but suddenly Sherlock had flipped from bruised to bleeding, and this wasn't exactly the kind of guy to just hug or talk it out. "I..." he started, with no idea of what he even was going to say.

"My terms," Sherlock snarled. "My terms or not at all! I will not--"

For a moment, just a moment, Greg forgot himself again. He started to sit forward, just wanting to grab the dripping icepack before it slid onto his sofa.

Sherlock flinched back as badly as if Greg had smacked him. He pressed backwards away from his hand and then jerked back forwards as if on a string. _"I said don't touch me!"_ he screamed, right in Greg's face. He panted and flushed bright red and stared at him with glittering, mad eyes, and then it was another switch flipped and he suddenly twisted back into himself, folded up like a pretzel and covering his face and breathing so hard it sounded like he was a running a sprint. A sprint away from Greg, away from everything, far away from everything.

He would run, if provoked. If Greg pushed at all, just the slightest bit, then he would run. And he wouldn't come back.

"Okay," he acquiesced, his voice heavy, and held his hands up in surrender. "Your terms."

Sherlock stayed panting in his pretzeled cocoon, and did not look up for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> You go, Sherlock <3
> 
> Next up, back with our regularly scheduled programming, the John and Mycroft-ex-machina conversation. I'll have that up in two days, I promise, and with that we'll be over the final hurdle. We've almost made it!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!! This chapter is up a bit early as a thank you, to all the engagement and support I've gotten on this fic so far <3
> 
> Finally, the chapter we've all been waiting for!

"He's _clean,_ Mycroft! What are you doing?! You-- stop that! _Mycroft!"_

But Mycroft paid John no attention whatsoever. Mycroft continued tearing through the sitting room like a man possessed, dislodging Sherlock's mail, and his books, and his dressing gown, and the skull. "If Sherlock was clean," he hissed, crisp and angry, "then he would not be entertaining this man right now." He shut a drawer with a snap and moved on, now crossing to the bookshelf and starting flipping through one by one. "Unless this, too, was your doing?"

"My _doing?"_

"Quite." He sent a dark look back over his shoulder, red with exertion while John was left just sitting in his chair, utterly lost. "Knowing my brother, I'm sure he has been as dishonest to you about this as he could-- but if there is anything I have been able to rely on you to do, over these past several years, it is to hurt my baby brother. Did you perhaps finally tire, on your limited but still disastrous influence on his life? Did you finally decide to encourage him straight into the arms of the one person worse than yourself?"

All right, _that_ wasn't fucking fair. "Yeah? And where the hell have _you_ been, lately?" he started, sting of jealousy tempered into full-blown disgust. "I won't deny that I've not been fair to Sherlock, but all _you've_ done is spy on him from your office. Not exactly brother of the year. And I didn't do anything but encourage Sherlock to give this a shot!"

 _"I,"_ Mycroft snapped, "have been out of the country, and only returned when my staff alerted me to the crisis in its making." He slammed one book down upon finding that it did not contain hollowed out pages and a vial and went straight onto the next. "I was sure it'd be safe to leave my brother's welfare to you for just a few days, but apparently this was an incorrect assumption to make. You have my apologies-- I won't make such a foolish mistake again."

John was even more lost than before. The only saving grace was that Mycroft didn't seem to be finding any drugs as he tore his way through the flat, but that was the smallest mercy that there was, barely a pinprick of a balm underneath the churning confusion. What the hell was going on?

With no answer forthcoming, John gave in to the urge to protect and stand up for Sherlock, because that was about the only thing left that he had. "Will you put that _down!"_ he snapped, snatching Mycroft's latest find out of his hands. "Sherlock is clean! And who he chooses to have a relationship with is none of your business!"

"What he has with that man is no _relationship,"_ Mycroft spat, forming the very word as if it was the foulest oath in the world. He looked disgusted. "And if you enjoy your continued existence anywhere remotely near this city, then you will cease _defending it_ within my earshot."

John was starting to get angry himself, now, provoked by the obvious hostility. Mycroft hadn't been this angry at him when he'd _hit Sherlock._ But now, when he was _trying_ to do the right thing, he had Mycroft come crawling up to treat him like dirt?

"What is it?" he started, folding his arms in the center of continued hurricane Mycroft. "Is it that it's another man? That Sherlock's gay? Never would've figured that would bother you, but I guess anyone can be an ignorant arsehole, even--"

"You don't know, do you."

"Know _what?!"_

Mycroft set the book in his hands down on the shelf with a loud _thump,_ and pivoted back to face John. He was still red in the face and his lips were tight, betraying a quiet, simmering anger, but he stood there and looked down at him and had gone almost unnaturally still. "You have no idea how old Sherlock was the first time."

What on _earth_ was he talking about? "I don't know, mid-twenties? He said he was a grad student, I don't-- Mycroft, what the hell does it matter, what are you--"

"Hmm. No. He didn't." Mycroft smiled, very slightly. But it barely looked like a smile at all, and he folded his hands behind his back with a look on his face that lowered the room's temperature by ten degrees. "You assumed that he was. And he let that assumption pass without being challenged."

"I..."

John tried to roll it back in his head, playing through conversation that had happened days ago now. Before that horrible look on his face this afternoon and whatever the hell Mycroft was doing here tonight. He had, hadn't he? Wasn't that what had happened? He'd assumed, and Sherlock had... let him assume that. He hadn't challenged it, so he'd thought...

"So? So? What are you--" John broke off and shook his head, not at Mycroft anymore but at the dawning sense of horror in his stomach. But no. That didn't make sense. It couldn't be true, because why would Sherlock have lied about that? No, _no_... "Look, unless you're going to give me a straight answer, Mycroft--"

"Sherlock was fifteen."

John's world inverted.

* * *

This, finally, was how all the answers came.

Over two cups of bitter tea, in a completely overturned sitting room, books on the floor and Sherlock's skull on its side, and with Mycroft settled in Sherlock's chair.

"Sherlock was fifteen when he enrolled in Cambridge. He was more than academically capable, but emotionally, he was not ready to be on his own." Mycroft paused, observing him flatly over the rim of his cup. "Sherlock spent all of primary school antagonising his instructors by being more intelligent than they could ever dream to be, and by being unable to be anything but disruptive with that fact. He had never had a friend, our parents, well-meaning though they were, did not understand either of us, and he wanted nothing to do with me even back then. I think he hated me, for not being like him. When he went to interview at Cambridge, and met Dr. Wilson, he was desperate for acknowledgement. But... I believe he was even more desperate for a friend."

John put his cup of tea down, very, very carefully, on the nearby table.

Now was not a safe time, for him to be holding something so tiny, fragile, and full of steaming hot liquid.

"I thought he was a graduate student," he rasped. He closed his eyes for a moment, raking through every word of the last week in his head. "If I'd had any idea... he told me that he'd been involved with Dr. Wilson while in university, and I just assumed. I thought... twenty-five. Twenty-six. Not--"

_Fifteen._

Mycroft gave him another pointed look, one eyebrow raised. "You know what they say about assumptions, John."

John was acutely glad he'd put the tea cup down.

After another moment, Mycroft coughed, very slight and quiet. He reverted his eyes back down to his own tea, moving the conversation on as he stared at the murky liquid. "I am, regretfully, somewhat unable to be specific about much of what went on between them. I was very busy with my own career, and while I used my connections to keep an eye on him, Sherlock was not exactly the type to call me up just to chat. I'm sure you can imagine." He smiled slightly again, a very cold sort of expression, like a snake biding its time before its bite. "What I have pieced together after the fact is that, while he was a gifted scientist in his own right, Dr. Wilson's true talent was in attracting very gifted students to his lab, so he could adopt their work as his own. Students like Sherlock, who were very desperate for praise and acknowledgement. To be made to feel... special." Mycroft paused again, looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Sherlock was not the first student of his that he'd slept with. I made sure that he was, however, the last."

"He shouldn't have had any more students to begin with. He should've been fired! He should've been fucking _arrested!_ He--" John clenched his fists in his lap, knotting his fingers together just to keep them still, because fucking hell he wanted to hit something. "What the hell happened to you? How could _the British government_ let him get away with this?"

Mycroft gave him an especially unamused stare, the hand on his cup tightening. "I did not have the same connections back then that I enjoy now. The only thing I could've done was report him to the school or police, and with Sherlock refusing to cooperate, nothing would've been done. Even if Sherlock had agreed to speak up, it likely would've ended poorly. This was 2001, John. Two men, engaged in a sexual relationship? One of whom was now a crack addict living with a rent boy?" His mouth curled, and he looked nearly sick. "Oh, I'm sure Dr. Wilson would've been fired, but the headline wouldn't have been a sexual abuse scandal. It would've been Sherlock Holmes: boy genius and sexual deviant."

John closed his eyes again, breathing harshly through his nose. He wanted to break something. He wanted to break Oscar's nose.

And it _definitely_ wasn't for fucking jealousy this time.

Mycroft was right. Without Sherlock's cooperation, there probably wasn't much that could've been done. But it wasn't 2001 anymore, and Sherlock wasn't a scared kid anymore, either.

And this time, Sherlock had more than just Mycroft on his side.

After another sip of tea, the look on his face suggesting it tasted even worse as it cooled, Mycroft continued on. "As I said, I don't know much of the specifics. What I can tell you is that the first I learned that something untoward might be going on was when Sherlock's violin tutor called me in his second year, to tell me that Sherlock had elected to stop carrying on with lessons. He said it was because he was too busy with coursework, but she told me, in confidence, that it had been a good decision. She could see that his heart wasn't in it anymore, she said." He frowned again, curling his hands closer together. "She thought that he seemed depressed."

"Sherlock. Depressed."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow back. "You've known him long enough, John. Does it really surprise you to learn that his moods have never been stable?"

"I think there's a bloody difference between lying on the sofa for a few days and clinical depression, Mycroft."

"That's very nice. This was 1999, and she was speaking to me as a family friend, not as a physician." Mycroft sighed deeply, setting his own tea down. "Sherlock, of course, refused to speak to me about it, and I deemed it to be a non-emergency. If he needed assistance, he knew where to find me."

John bit his tongue to keep silent. _He was fifteen,_ he wanted to shout again. He shouldn't have had to ask for fucking _help_.

But blaming Mycroft wouldn't get them anywhere closer to helping Sherlock. And that was the only thing that mattered.

Mycroft cleared his throat when John kept his silence, still frowning across the somewhat destroyed sitting room. "I never actually saw Sherlock during this period until I visited during his third year. And by this point, it was too late. He was already in over his head."

"Had the-- I mean." John wet his lips, suddenly unsure of how to say it. He didn't want to say _relationship._ That sounded too equal, too normal, too _consensual,_ for whatever the fuck this had been. But-- "Was Dr. Wilson already..."

Mycroft's mouth twitched, a quiet look of increasing disgust slipping across his features. "Yes. For some time. Not that Sherlock recognised it as inappropriate. He felt... _special_ , and grew incredibly hostile when that viewpoint was confronted." He sipped his tea again, looking away. "Believe it or not, John, I was worried about Sherlock. I always worry about him. He just makes it especially hard to express that worry in a productive manner. I timed my visit along with forecasts for a terrible snowstorm, in January-- between the ice and the snow, I would be stuck in Sherlock's room, and Sherlock would be as well. Classes would be cancelled, and he would have nowhere else he could go. He would be forced to have a prolonged conversation with me, with no opportunity for distraction or retreat."

Despite himself, John laughed. It wasn't very funny at all, and it came out small and caustic, but he couldn't help it. "Sherlock would camp out in a blizzard if it was for the purpose of avoiding you."

"Perhaps," Mycroft murmured. "I never got the chance to see that play out, because my dear brother never showed up."

"What do you mean he never showed up? Where was he?"

Mycroft frowned again, his dangerous, veering onto a threat sort of frown. He curled his hands together in the same habit of Sherlock's, the fingers tight and white-knuckled. "He showed up three days after I did looking like a drowned rat, and clearly had no idea I had been waiting for him the entire time. He had, instead, been looking after Dr. Wilson's lab during the storm. Certainly not of his own accord, alone in a locked building with the power cut off, while Dr. Wilson himself relaxed at home." He made another face, a cold fury building back behind his eyes. "It was apparent just from the state of his room that he was in over his head, and looking at him made it even more so. He was too anxious to properly eat or sleep, and was working fifteen hour days to try and make Dr. Wilson happy. It likely speaks volumes that he chose to sleep alone at lab rather than accept Dr. Wilson's offer to stay with him."

"And you just let this carry on, then. You knew your little brother was being sexually abused and manipulated and you just let it happen," John snapped. "Because-- what? You didn't want to sully your reputation? You--"

He cut himself off to inhale through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Mycroft had already told him why. He hadn't been able to do anything without Sherlock's cooperation. He hadn't had Sherlock's cooperation. Mycroft had been in the exact same position back then that John was in today.

They could only help Sherlock as much as he was willing to help himself.

"...Sorry," John finally forced out, unfurling his fist finger by finger. He stared hard across the room, trying to control his breathing. It didn't go very well. "Continue."

Mycroft hmmed quietly, and returned to his cup of tea. He sipped once, his mouth reduced to a flat, strained line. "It was several months after this," he went on, quietly again, "in August of his final year, that I was contacted. Sherlock had been hospitalised."

John's world inverted for the second time, and for one stricken moment, he was so _mad_ he nearly picked up the cup of tea after all, just to hurl it across the room.

If this piece of _shit_ had hurt Sherlock... if he had hit him after all, if he had struck him _even once--_

"Relax, John," Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. "It was nothing along the lines of what you're thinking. He had an ulcer."

"...An ulcer," he repeated flatly. John worked his jaw, trying very hard to keep himself sounding remotely calm. "At... eighteen."

Mycroft nodded once. "His physician shared your concerns, and suggested to me that Sherlock might be under some form of severe stress. Sherlock told both me and him to leave him alone with several choice words that I see no reason to repeat, and refused to speak on the matter in any way. I stepped out of his room for twenty minutes to confer with his physician, and when I came back, he had left. Quite against medical advice."

Yeah, of course he had. It shouldn't have been his choice. He should've been taken out of university altogether the second it had gotten so bad he'd ended up in the bloody hospital.

Ulcers could happen in children. And that was what Sherlock had still been, a fucking _child._ But they were rare, and there was no excuse for one to go untreated so for long that it turned into emergency hospitalization. Sherlock would've been experiencing stomach pain and nausea for months. It would've hurt to eat, it would've hurt not to eat, and he would've been throwing up enough that somewhere in that genius brain of his, he would've _had_ to know something was wrong.

If John had a teenage patient that fit Sherlock's case, his first question would've been how the hell his parents hadn't noticed or brought their child in for a check-up until now. Sherlock's parents, it seemed, hadn't been involved here, so John's next question would be how such a brilliant student had gotten so sick without noticing it, and why an eighteen year old was under so much stress in the first place.

If Wilson had been a proper partner instead of an abusive fuckwit, John fumed, he would've noticed the symptoms too.

"You still should've done something," he muttered, unable to help himself. "I know, it's Sherlock, he's more of a handful than anyone else in the world, but. He was eighteen, Mycroft."

_Yeah? Like you should've done something, John?_

At least Mycroft had known something was wrong. At least Mycroft hadn't all but shoved him out the door onto a _date_ with this _bastard._

"Yes," Mycroft agreed quietly. "I should have." He took another sip of tea, thumb tapping incessantly against the rim. "I didn't, which is the reason for what happened next."

John kept his mouth shut, his hands clenched in his lap. He didn't want to sit here anymore, he wanted to tear out of the flat, drive Mycroft's fancy car straight down to the fancy restaurant, and drag Sherlock out of there. He wanted to sock Dr. Slug in a Suit in the face and then do it again. He didn't want to hear this.

But he couldn't make himself move.

"From what I've been able to find out, Sherlock is simply one of many students that Dr. Wilson had already repeated this pattern with. He took on vulnerable students like Sherlock, vulnerable but gifted students, and he abused their desire for praise to get as much work out of them as he could. He might've even genuinely liked them. But after years of stress and overwork and an abusive relationship, those affections began to turn very cold, very fast, when their work began to suffer for it. And when they wore out his affections and could no longer meet his standards, he got rid of them."

Something must've shown on John's face at that, because Mycroft rolled his eyes again, shaking his head. "Nothing as dramatic as you're thinking. This isn't a movie. He didn't hurt them, John. He just... drove them off. After years of abuse, it wasn't very difficult. Most that I could track down had dropped out or transferred to another program. Almost none of those that had stayed with him were successful." Mycroft turned sour, setting his cup down with a hard, cold _clink._ "The graduate student before Sherlock dropped out of university when it happened to him. Five years of research, and just before he was meant to have his final hearing, Dr. Wilson submitted his main project for publication, without his name on it. Mr. Trevor had nothing to present as his own, had just had his future career smashed to bits, and had no defense for it-- not unless he wanted his sexuality, career-ending in and of itself, to be outed to the entire committee."

"Is that what happened to Sherlock?" John started, grinding his teeth. "He told me he had no respect for Dr. Wilson's science; is that why?"

Sherlock had been trying to tell him this whole time. Sherlock had said everything but the word _abuse,_ and John had been wanting so badly for him to be happy he hadn't listened. He hadn't fucking listened.

Mycroft looked away with a scowl, a stiff, an especially unhappy scowl. "Sherlock has never told me what happened, but yes. It is exactly the same. He went in for his final committee hearing, just a few weeks before graduation, and right before the meeting Dr. Wilson told him that his progress on his main project wasn't satisfactory, and he wouldn't be allowed to present. Dr. Wilson gave him some of his own data to present instead, but it wasn't a project Sherlock knew anything about, and half an hour wasn't enough time for even him to learn it well enough for a presentation where he was meant to be showcasing years of experience and expertise. The committee all but laughed him out of the room, and Dr. Wilson announced in front of the entire panel how disappointed he was in Sherlock. How much of a failure he was, and how badly he had let him down." He paused again, glancing at John, as if unsure if he should go on and explain what happened next.

John didn't much care, what happened next. He just wanted this story to be over.

"My own career was going very well, and I had made connections at Cambridge specifically to watch out for Sherlock. I heard what had happened, and finally intervened. But it was too late. All Sherlock needed to do was show up for his last few weeks of finals, and the school would allow him to graduate with full honors, but he refused to do so. He cleaned out his room the day of the hearing, left a note for both me and the school full of several more choice words, and dropped off the map." Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably, his gaze dropping back down to his lap. "By the time I was able to track him down, it was two months after he was meant to graduate, and he was living with Victor Trevor. Another man nearly twice his age; this time, the one who had introduced him to cocaine. I'm afraid my offers of a government job were somewhat less enticing." He narrowed his pale, angry eyes. "Shortly after I found him, the news broke that Dr. Wilson had published again, this time with a groundbreaking article that was the talk of the entire field. Sherlock was mentioned only as an unnamed undergraduate in the acknowledgements, but it was his work. All of the paper was his work."

Mycroft paused for another sip, frowning severely down at the floor. His finger tapped again, very stiffly and cold, with an almost mechanical air. He did not look back up at John. "That day was the first time that Sherlock overdosed."

That was it. No more.

John didn't want to hear _any more_ of this story. Maybe if Sherlock wanted to tell him, someday, but-- not like this. Not sitting in their destroyed sitting room, hearing the feed of information from Mycroft, because Sherlock wasn't even _here._ Not like this, and definitely not _now._

"John?'

John all but stomped across the room, stepping over the books left on the floor in Mycroft's search and without regard for the still semi-full tea cup left behind. "I'm going to find Sherlock," he snapped, hauling his jacket up from the sofa. "I don't care if you come with me or sit here and dust the kitchen table, Mycroft. I'm going. He--" John zipped his jacket up, rage swelling in his throat, then swiveled back around only one step on to the door. "What the hell is wrong with him?! Why would he _ever_ agree to see this man again?! Sherlock must hate him!"

"That, I don't know." Mycroft stood up himself, his own cup abandoned as he gave his tie a sharp tug. He was still pale and looked a cross between sick and absolutely furious. "Sherlock's obfuscation with you, about their relationship, was surely intentional. I'm not sure how much he understands that he was taken advantage of, but he does understand, at least, that most people would describe what happened as abuse. But I know that he would never describe what he had with this man as happy, or healthy, or normal. He certainly never wanted to see him again, and I don't know why he would agree to meet with him now."

John did.

John knew, right then and there, with a sinking certainty that sat in his stomach like lead, exactly why Sherlock was out there tonight.

Because John had told him to go.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to go to Cambridge at all. He and Greg had told him to go, and he had.

He hadn't wanted to agree to meet Oscar. He'd said _no_ and sat there in his chair and glared at the floor, but John had kept _asking,_ he hadn't left it alone. He hadn't _listened_ to what Sherlock was trying to say, until his friend had finally glanced sideways at him with those bright, inscrutable eyes, and asked _this would make you happy?_

_This would make you happy?_

And then, just a few hours ago today, John had all but grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and thrown him out of the flat. Sherlock had told John in every way that he could that he hadn't wanted to go. He'd told him that he felt sick. He'd told him that he thought he was going to throw up. He'd stood there at the door and needed to be all but pushed outside, and John hadn't realised. John had never realised something was wrong.

He'd done it all for John.

_Again._

When this was all over-- when Sherlock was safe at Baker Street, and felt better, and this _arsehole_ was several hundred miles off with a broken nose-- they were going to have a talk. They were going to have a long, very clear talk, about Sherlock hurting himself for John's sake. Because it kept happening, and it wasn't okay. John's own happiness could not come at the expense of Sherlock's suffering and for Sherlock to keep acting as if it did wasn't only hurting himself, it was hurting John, too. This could not go on.

Ella, as it turned out, had been right.

None of this would've fucking happened if Sherlock had valued himself enough to open up his mouth and say _no._

But that was for later, and this was _now._

John stalked to the door, barely even remembering to grab his keys on the way out. "I'm assuming you know the fucking restaurant?" he tossed over his shoulder, phone shoved into his pocket, heart still lodged in his throat. "So we can--" Mycroft's phone rang, and whatever was left of John's patience completely and permanently snapped. "God damn it, Mycroft, _not now--"_

_"John!"_

He spun back around, and for the second time that night, stopped dead.

Sherlock's name, flashing across the screen of Mycroft's phone.

Sherlock. Calling Mycroft. Instead of John, but... _calling Mycroft._

Thank _god._

Mycroft held a finger to his lips, meeting John's eyes and waiting there in the silence of the flat, only the vibrating of his phone to break the fallout of the devastated quiet that had settled after all that John had learned here tonight. John nodded once, not daring to even open his mouth, _oh, god, Sherlock_ , and Mycroft answered the call with a look of sheer trepidation.

"Brother mine," he said quietly.

Silence.

No answer.

Rustling.

No answer. No answer. _Fuck._

"Sherlock," Mycroft started again. A little louder this time, his voice tinged with the return of worry instead of relief. "Are you--"

"I spat in Oscar's soup."

John nearly keeled all the way back into his chair in sheer relief.

Fucking hell, thank _god._

"Sherlock," Mycroft breathed. He, too, sagged on the spot, covering his face with an exhausted hand. It was as if all the stress and worry had eased out of him and left him deflated and empty, but _relieved,_ and John agreed. John fucking agreed.

There was silence again, just a bit more odd rustling from Sherlock, but no words followed this excessively odd proclamation. Mycroft glanced at John, frowning slightly, and moved to sit against the desk. "Sherlock, where are you?"

Another faint rustling, and then, an even fainter, very low, throaty laugh. "London."

"Brother mine--"

Sherlock giggled again, the way only Sherlock could. So deep, like he was a big, growling cat, low-pitched and sexy but right now, it was much more alarming than it was endearing. "I didn't... Mycroft. Mycroft?"

"Wh--"

"You're going to be angry with me."

Yep. Definitely alarming.

John shared another look with Mycroft. They were both, he could tell, thinking the same thing-- that _I spat in Oscar's soup_ was going to end up being the prologue to a much less innocent story. John had a terrifying vision of Sherlock dialing Mycroft sitting in a pool of Oscar Wilson's blood, flushed and grinning, and in the same instant knew he didn't fucking care. He'd hide the body. He'd grab Sherlock by the hand and flee the bloody country with him if Mycroft couldn't help them. He'd watched Sherlock be arrested for murder once and it wasn't happening again. Not for this waste of space.

Mycroft was already typing furiously on a second phone, likely summoning the full strength of his office for all the help he could get. "I'm not angry, Sherlock," he started, his voice strained, "though a bit disgusted, I--"

"You are. You're angry." He giggled again, and John's worry spiked. _"Liiiiiar."_

Mycroft closed his eyes for one long second, breathing in deeply. It was clearly taking an astronomical effort to reel in his patience. "Fine. Yes, brother mine. I am extremely upset with you and you are never going to hear the end of it. But not right now. Sherlock, where are--"

"I wanted to use."

John's stomach dropped out from underneath him.

No. _No._ Not again.

"I wanted to--" Sherlock hiccuped, his voice cracked, "I wanted... I wanted to so _badly._ I _hate_ him. I wanted to kill him and snort the best cocaine in London. He killed Victor. I--"

"Sherlock, _where are you._ Answer me right now! Sherlock, where are you?! Sherlock!"

Sherlock sniffed and hiccuped again. He sounded stuck somewhere between hysterical and choking on his own laughter, and the worry expanded in John's chest until it crushed him.

Sherlock. Barely a month ago yet, underweight and keeling over with double kidney failure, his arms so badly bruised up and down they almost gave up finding a vein. Sherlock, wanting to go home, demanding to ride it out cold turkey, but being overruled by John, Mycroft, and his attending all together, because he was in such bad shape that the detox _would kill him._ Mrs. Hudson, crying on John's shoulder, murmuring about finding Sherlock asleep on the floor in his own vomit; Sherlock, still barely more than skin and bones, moving stiffly, sorely, sleeping more, because he was a bloody human being and he could only put his body through the wringer so many times before it started to give up on him.

Sherlock's body couldn't handle another relapse. He'd barely survived the last one. If he dosed again...

"John," Sherlock said suddenly.

It was so abrupt, so unexpected, that John flinched back from the mobile. Could Sherlock somehow know he was right there, listening in?

But Sherlock breathed deeply next, his voice muffled, as if he'd buried his face into his hands or knees. "You can't tell John," he said, and there was a loud scrape, like a clumsy footstep. "'ll never forgive you, Mycroft, 'll set your favorite bakery on _fire,_ d'you understand? The one with the... the blueberries, or... don't care, on _fire."_

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "I'm not going to tell--"

"John doesn't want... me to. John doesn't..." Sherlock sniffed again, seeming to struggle for air, gulping heavily. "He'd hate me forrrit, Mycroft. I can't do it again, he, he won't. He'll leave. He'll take Ross... Rosie. I _love_ Rosie. I _can't_ lose them again, Mycroft. 'S sentiment, I don't _care,_ shut _up,_ I, I don't... I w-want..."

Oh, _hell._

No. No, Sherlock, he wanted to say, _god_ no. Not like this. No, he couldn't let his daughter around a using drug addict, but this wasn't fair; this wasn't Sherlock's fault. Or it was, but--

If Sherlock _was_ using again, it was directly because he'd been forced against the man who was the reason he'd started using drugs in the first place. He needed support, not being thrown out on the fucking street.

They'd fix this. They'd get Sherlock clean and then John would make sure Sherlock _never_ thought he couldn't come to him for help again.

Because he'd relapsed. Sherlock hadn't said so, but it was obvious. His voice was slurring and stumbling over itself, the words sloppy as he lost track of what he was trying to say. Heroin, was John's best guess. Definitely a depressant of some kind. _Damn it, Sherlock._ Opiate withdrawal was the hardest kind, and he'd only just gotten over the worst of it from before. And now he was going to have to fight through it all over again. _Damn it all--_

 _"Sherlock,"_ Mycroft said abruptly. He passed a hand over his face again, squeezing the bridge of his nose, and for one bewildering moment looked, not alarmed, but exasperated. "Are you _drunk?"_

Sherlock, once again, giggled.

Silence. One second after the other. Sherlock's low, raspy breathing.

"Yes," his friend said finally, his voice lolling and high-pitched, and _proud._ Like he was _proud_ of himself. He giggled again.

And John dropped back into his chair in sheer relief.

_He hasn't used._

Mycroft looked just about as exhausted and relieved as John, and more than ready to get off the emotional rollercoaster. He sat across from him with his one hand still dangling limply, the other over his face, and John couldn't tell if he wanted to shout at Sherlock or thank him. Sherlock, meanwhile, was now _very_ definitely drunk, his low laughter all to himself music to John's ears as much as it made him want to hit something. God damn it.

"Alci- aclo... _al-co-hol'_ s... allowed. Isn't it. John drinks, he can't get mad at this, I--" There were a few scrapes, Sherlock trying to walk or perhaps just working his feet over the ground. "I hate when he drinks, Mycr... Mycr. It makes him miserable. I wish he wouldn't. Why do we do things that make us misera, miserable, Mycroft, I don't-- 'ld've jus gotten a _bloody goldfish--"_

Mycroft looked pointedly at John.

John nodded once, forcing himself not to look away. Okay. He could pour out every bloody drink in the flat. If Sherlock could stay clean for him, then he could do this for him.

Sherlock was right, anyway. He always was. John wasn't an alcoholic, no matter what Mycroft thought-- he didn't crave it, like Sherlock did those chemicals to inject in his veins right now. He could stop himself when he'd had enough. But Sherlock was still right. What did he get out of pouring himself half a bottle of whiskey, what did he _really_ get? Feeling miserable for himself? Thinking about his dead assassin wife? Stewing about how he felt for Sherlock?

If Sherlock could live without cocaine and heroin to turn off whatever hell he was feeling right now, then John was pretty sure he could live without that.

Sherlock was muttering to himself again, sounding especially forlorn and mournful. Definitely too much to drink. They needed to track him down, pour him into one of Mycroft's cars, and get him home. _Now._

"--'n you know something else, Mycr? I'm scared. I'm _terrified,_ lookit me. I'm so--" he laughed again, still hysterical. "I hate it. I tried to be normal. J'hn said so. He said it was all normal, Mycr, I asked him so and he promised it was. Why? Why would anyone wwwant to feel like this, I-- I _hate it!_ I _don't want to!"_

 _Then you don't have to,_ he wanted to say. _No,_ he wanted to shout, _you daft idiot, NO_. This wasn't normal. Nothing about this and how he'd felt was normal, why hadn't he realised that? Why hadn't he listened to what Sherlock was trying to say?

Once again, the stab of jealousy was still there, twisted in his stomach, but the blade was dull. _I'd never make you feel like this_ was one impulse, but the whole of it was _nobody should make you feel like this, Sherlock. It's not normal, please listen to me--_

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him, because he'd called Mycroft. Because John was the reason he was out there drunk out of his mind in the first place.

Where the hell were Mycroft's people with that trace?

"'N you know what the... you _know_ what the hell else?" And suddenly, Sherlock was shouting over the phone, his voice oddly tiny and cracked through the static. "I hate him. He's a disgusting human being. He makes me sick and he killed my best friend, and I still-- I'd still--"

"Take this, John," Mycroft snapped, thumbing the mute button. He jerked to his feet with his face twisted, already dialing a number on his second phone. "Don't let him hang up. I'm seeing what the hold up is..."

"--I'd still rather have _him_ than John!"

John blinked.

Sherlock would what now?

"Sherlock," he started, though the call was still on mute. It was for the best-- John had no idea what to say.

"J'hn terrifies me, Mycroft. I can't-- Oscar makes me sick. I can't stand him. I d-don't, don't care what he says about me, what he thinks. But John--" Sherlock stuttered in another heavy breath, his words stumbling. He was barely intelligible at this point and John clutched the phone closer, biting his tongue.

John was what? What had John done to him that was _worse_ than this?

"If Oscar makes me feel like this then John can only be worse. He could kill me, Myc'oft. And I'd let him do it. He can have everything, Mycroft," Sherlock sobbed, his voice muffled again, "I'd give him _everything._ I want him and I'm scared of what it'd be because I don't know what worse is. But I can't do worse. I can't anymore. I'm so _tired._ And don't ta... don't _talk_ to me about sent'ment, you fat interfa... interfer... _dummkopf._ Because I know... I know he doesn't! Not like that. But I love him and I don't think I can stop."

It was a good thing that John was already sitting down. Because if he hadn't been, then he might've fallen over, right about now.

There was no room for misinterpretation in Sherlock's words. He hadn't come right out and said it, he hadn't said, _I'm in love with John Watson,_ but he didn't have to. It was the day at the tarmac all over again, with Sherlock opening his mouth and John so sure he was going to say it only for something else not quite it to come out, but-- John heard what he meant. He heard what he hadn't said. He felt it.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he whispered, slumped back in his chair. "This whole time..."

Yes. _Yes._ This whole time.

One by one, every last puzzle piece clicked into place.

_Romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being._

_I'm gay._

_I'm not asexual, John. I just don't shag idiots._

_This would make you happy?_

Sherlock had agreed to see this man again because he'd thought it would make John happy. That was it. Because it had never once even entered the genius' mind that John loving him back could be possible.

John couldn't blame him. He'd been just the same.

And it was why Sherlock was so scared of it now.

Because what the hell, but Ella had been right again. She had been _exactly_ right and hadn't even realised it.

It was what she'd try to say to John about abuse, and abusive relationships. And moving on after they were over, or... not moving on at all. He still wouldn't call his marriage abusive-- if anyone had been abused, it was Sherlock with a bullet to the chest-- but he could at least admit now it had been toxic and unhealthy, and there was no lost love between them by the end. He'd been miserable, in his marriage, but now that it was gone, he'd found himself strangely reluctant to try again. Not just because of Sherlock.

But this had been Sherlock's only real relationship. His only experience with what a romantic relationship would be was emotional manipulation and sexual abuse. Maybe he'd had something better with this Victor, maybe not, but--

As horrible as that relationship had been, and as miserable as it had clearly made him, it was safe. It was safe because he knew how he'd be treated, and how it would hurt, and he knew he'd survive it because he'd survived it before.

Oscar Wilson couldn't break his heart because he didn't have it.

John _did._

And, if John allowed himself to be totally honest, Sherlock didn't have much reason to think that a relationship with him would go any better.

John took a deep breath, and turned off the mute button.

"'M _scared,_ My, I c'n't stand it. I," and Sherlock was still crying, utterly drunk off his arse and barely cognizant. He clearly hadn't realised that Mycroft hadn't spoken back to him in approaching five minutes. "I _hate him._ 'nd I hate _you,_ 'nd... 'nd mys-"

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, _taisez-vous_ , Myc-"

Sherlock's reeling voice shuddered to a stop.

"Yeah," John said. "It's me. And you're not going to hang up the phone. Are you, Sherlock?"

A breath stuttered over the phone. Across the room, Mycroft stared at him in pale, barely disguised alarm, and John steadily turned away. This was not his business.

"John," Sherlock finally said. His vice was faint and raspy, like he barely had the wherewithal to speak.

"Yes. You are going to listen to me. Do you think you can do that?"

"John," he repeated. He cleared his throat, halfway sobered up by the alarm alone. "I have... you were not meant--"

"Shush for a moment. Yes, Sherlock, I heard what you said. You are not going to panic about that. Everything is fine between you and me. Okay?"

Relationship or not, that was true. John would _make it_ true. Somehow, one way or another, they _would_ come out of this okay.

Sherlock hiccuped again, his breaths unsteady. "I called Mycroft," he stammered again, "I didn't... John. It's fine, I know you're not gay, it's fine, I don't--"

"Sherlock, for god's sake, I'm telling you I love you too. _Yes,_ like that. I, John H Watson, am in love with you, William Sherlock not actually a girl's name Holmes. And that's bloody fantastic, and we're going to talk about that when you can walk a straight line, but right now I need you to listen to me. Are you somewhere safe?"

A short moment of silence followed. Sherlock's breaths continued to stutter over the line, and from behind him, John could just feel Mycroft's level gaze, staring at his back.

"Yes," Sherlock finally mumbled.

"All right. Have you taken anything besides the alcohol?"

"No."

 _Thank god._ "Okay. Mycroft is finding your location, and then one of us is going to come pick you up. I'll stay on the line with you until then. You're going to keep talking to me, and not hang up until we get there."

"...Okay," Sherlock mumbled. He sounded dazed, his tongue thick and the word slow.

Well, he was no longer on the verge of drunken sobbing anymore, so that was something.

John turned back to glance at Mycroft, gauging how long they had left. The politician held up two fingers, his face strained and pale, and John nodded. Two minutes. "Sherlock--" he started, increasingly reluctant, but he had to ask. "Can you wait until we get there? Do you have something with you right now?"

"Have... something? Something... hnn. No, J-"

"This is serious, Sherlock. If you take something like heroin right now, it _will_ kill you. If you--"

 _"No,_ John!" he said again, his voice rising. "I came here-- my dealer's s'vnteen street away. I'm not. I wouldn't. I--"

"Okay," he eased, "all right. I believe you. I'm sorry. I had to be sure, Sherlock."

It wasn't a good sign that Sherlock, even in his intoxicated state, knew exactly how far his dealer was from him. But they'd deal with it. They had to. Sherlock hadn't used, and that was what was important.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. He sounded nervous again, nervous in a way that Sherlock had _never_ been before, and made John want to _knock Oscar Wilson's teeth down his fucking throat._ "John. I feel sick."

John nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "That's normal," he told him, keeping his voice patient. "Stay sitting up. With all you've had to drink--"

 _"No,_ " Sherlock hissed. "Not _that._ 'M not a _baby_ , J'hn, I..." He sighed, and shifted loudly, his clothes rustling over the line. "I snogged him."

"He _kissed you?"_

Never mind his fucking teeth. John was going to kick his bloody skull in. He was going to leave him howling in pain on the ground, the son of a _bitch--_

"No!" Sherlock whined again, indignant. "Told you. _I_ kissed _him."_

"You... oh." A lump settled in John's stomach, and he swallowed again. His fury turned inward, just like that, anger into understanding, and misery along with it. _Oh._ "That's. All right, Sherlock. You were--"

"For the news... the reporter. So his wife'd see. Not. Gah... _words!"_ Sherlock grumbled something, his voice edging just on incoherent, then just moaned. "Snogged him. Thn told him he was a terrible scientist and d'sgusting excuse fr a human being. Then I spat in his soup. Then I left."

"You..."

Slowly, the pieces scattered by his drunk best friend began to make sense. John put the puzzle together in his head, still on edge and entirely too worried.

The picture clicked, and John couldn't help it. He sank deeper into his chair, and he laughed. He listened to Sherlock on the verge of tears or throwing up or both on the phone, and he laughed. "Good," he coughed, his heart heavy. "Take some deep breaths, Sherlock. It's fine if you get sick. You'll feel better after."

"Will not," he muttered, impudently, almost like a child. Then, "never do,", and John's amusement collapsed in on itself.

Mycroft at last lowered his phone, turning back to face John with an angry tug at his suit jacket. "My staff have Sherlock's location, as well as Dr. Oscar Wilson's. One of us needs to speak to him, and properly dissuade him from ever attempting to so much as contact Sherlock again. _Tonight,_ John."

John agreed full-heartedly. Even though just about every contact here had been initiated by Sherlock-- even though the date itself had ended, again, after _Sherlock_ had kissed _him--_ he didn't care. Whatever Sherlock had done or wanted to do, his life was better with this man not in it.

John held stock still in the silence, and listened to Sherlock over the phone, his breaths still stammering and just this side of fearful. Sherlock was afraid. Sherlock had thrown himself off a rooftop, died on an operating table, and bowed his neck for a serial killer, and _now,_ he was afraid.

"I'll speak to Oscar," he said.

Mycroft's eyes widened minutely. He did not display his surprise with any more than that, but John was already turning away, grabbing for his jacket and shoes as fast as he could. "Sherlock called you, and not me, for a reason. He trusts you more than me right now."

Mycroft nodded once, his mouth thinning. He did not look remotely happy, but John wasn't exactly looking for happy, here.

He just wanted this to end.

"Get him to drink as much water as you can. If he loses consciousness and you can't wake him up, or has any trouble breathing, any at all, you take him straight to an A&E." John shouldered his jacket back on, yanking the zipper to his chin with a clenched, furious fist. "And you will not get angry with him, do you understand me?"

"John--"

"He did exactly what he was supposed to. He wanted to use, and he called someone he trusted and told them rather than going out and doing it. He did the right thing and you will not make him feel badly for it." He lifted the phone back to his ear, straining to hear the continuing rasp of breaths on the other end. "Sherlock?"

"John."

"Good," he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Good man. Sherlock, Mycroft is on his way to you right now. I'll stay on the phone with you until he gets there. That all right?" There was another short silence, just Sherlock's tired, heavy breaths, and John realised the oncoming worry before it hit. "I'll be here tomorrow morning. We'll talk then, Sherlock. I'll be here and I promise everything'll be fine. I just need to... to..."

"You're going to see Oscar."

John sighed. "Yes." There was no point in trying to hide it. Even in this state, even over the phone, Sherlock was clearly capable of this deduction. "We figured someone should let him know the next time he contacts you he'll get hung for it. And then Mycroft will expatriate him and deport the body to outer Mongolia."

Sherlock rasped out a faint, barely audible laugh. The sound of it hurt to hear.

The words that came next, however, hurt much, much more.

"He didn'... John. He's-- I never-- said no."

"Jesus," he moaned. "Sherlock--"

It felt like his chest was caving in. It also felt like Oscar Wilson was in a very immediate danger of having his teeth knocked down his throat.

Mycroft sent John to his waiting black car, the important addresses already given to the driver to send him on his way. John wasn't sure what the politician did for himself, and he didn't care. He just seatbelted himself into the back seat and clutched the phone in cold, clammy hands, listening to Sherlock's unsteady breaths and utterly torn on what to say.

"That's something we'll talk more about tomorrow," he landed on, and the words were a lot sterner than he really felt. "But you were fifteen. He was the adult."

Had Sherlock ever said no to John?

Had Sherlock ever said no to anyone or anything that actually mattered?

"I--"

"End of discussion, Sherlock."

There was another low, unhappy sigh. Not at all one of acceptance, and instead one of exhaustion.

He flexed his hands, his heart thudding in his chest, and forced himself to stay calm.

They were through the worst of it. Tonight was the lowest point, and they would survive this. Sherlock was going to be okay, and John was going to be there with him, and they'd see it through to the other side.

He focused on that, and the unsteady pattern of Sherlock's tear-thick breathing, and for just that moment, tried not to let himself think about anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Artist: Akarri](https://the-original-akarri.tumblr.com/)
> 
> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> Next up, Sherlock and John are going to try a thing called "communication" and "an actual conversation". Novel, I know. It'll (hopefully) be great ^_^
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos/comments!!! I hope you're somewhere warm and comfortable and you've got your snacks and beverage of your choice, because now it's time for a /really goddamn long chapter/. We've got 50k words and two seasons worth of miscommunication to talk through, so settle in!
> 
> And a BIG, BIG THANK YOU to YAJJ/paybackraid for helping me to proofread and edit this monster (for a show she hasn't even watched!) Woo!

At half past nine at night, totally alone and on an utterly isolated campus, John met Dr. Oscar Wilson properly for the first time.

He did so by waiting for him around the corner, and greeting him with a solid fist to the face.

Dr. Slug in a Suit landed sprawled on his side, wheezing like a man who'd just been sucker punched and holding the bleeding cut on his face. He flinched backwards from John, already squirming on the pavement like the slug he was. "Take my wallet--" he started, and he flinched backwards again, harder than before. "You can take my wallet, you can have--"

"I don't want your wallet." John waited one very careful moment, watching the struggles slow on the ground as Oscar started to look up. "Do you know who I am?"

This was the second time in a month he'd stood over a beaten man shivering on the ground after putting him there himself, and his fist clenched to keep him down. This was the second time he looked down at somebody on the floor and wanted to stomp his foot down and feel ribs break underneath it.

Never again. He would never let himself do something like this again.

After tonight.

"You're..." Oscar's pathetic struggles stilled, and he started to sit up. His dark eyes widened. "You're Dr Watson. You're Dr John Watson." His face twisted, equal parts derision and fear standing out in the darkness. "Did Sherlock send--"

John dragged him up by the collar, and socked a second punch straight across his face.

"You'll keep his name out of your mouth," he hissed. "If you know what's good for you."

Oscar did, at least, have the good sense to shut his mouth. He stared up at John with hard eyes and a rapidly swelling lower lip, but he kept his mouth shut, and when he showed that he'd learned to keep his silence, John let him go. He freed the fist in his collar and watched as the man scrambled back, stumbling up to his feet only when he was far enough away to not get struck again.

"You're going to stay away from Sherlock Holmes," John warned quietly. "You are never, _ever,_ going to so much as look in his direction again. Is that understood?"

Oscar made a small, disparaging noise, the corner of his mouth tight. With his lip still swelling and bleeding, it didn't come out looking all as confident as he probably wanted it to. "As if I would want to," he murmured, which was probably the stupidest, most ill-advised statement anybody had ever said in the history of recorded time. "As I recall, Sherlock was the one who called me."

"Hm. Yeah. I know. I don't care." John didn't bother to advance further, and he didn't bother to crack his knuckles or make a fist. He didn't need a show of force to intimidate this whiny, pathetic slime any more than he already had. "If Sherlock calls you, then you'd just better figure out something to tell him. Brainstorm a bit; give being responsible a try." He smiled again, and here, he crouched just a bit down. Just low enough to meet the man down on his pathetic level. "Like you should've done when you had a fifteen year old in your office."

Oscar did not answer. By the look on his face, it seemed he sensed properly that he was on very, very fragile ground, and did not want to tempt John into hitting him a third time.

It was a shame. Because John very much wanted to.

He looked at Oscar, at his split lip and smug face and the smarmy way he dabbed at the scrape, and there was _nothing_ that would be enough. He wanted to take what he'd done to Sherlock in the morgue and unleash it all on this piece of shit instead. He wanted to take every bit of physical hurt and unfair words and cruelty that he had ever, _ever_ done to Sherlock, and visit it down on Oscar Wilson instead.

This man, this _disgusting_ excuse for a human being, had looked at a fifteen year old Sherlock. A beautifully brilliant _child,_ one that had probably never had a friend in his life, and all he'd seen was somebody that he could use. He'd used him until there was nothing left and then discarded him like trash, and now he'd come _worming back_ decades later just to throw a wrench in the life Sherlock had built with his own blood, sweat, and tears.

John could kill him. John could shoot him in the face just like Sherlock had shot Magnussen for him.

But that wasn't what Sherlock needed from him.

"I'm glad we understand each other," he said, when Oscar at least had enough good sense not to argue again. "To make sure, though. I understand Sherlock ruined your marriage already?" He smiled again, and oh, _oh_ he was proud of Sherlock for it. He wished he'd been there to see it for himself. "Well. If I ever see you so much as try to contact Sherlock again, then I'll do the same to your career-- or at least, whatever's left of it. I'll post a tell-all on my blog; you know the one, don't you? Very popular. The Queen's a fan, I've heard." He paused, waiting for the whiny shit to get it. "No one will ever be able to google your name again without getting headline stories of sexual abuse. Good luck explaining that one to Cambridge."

It was a bluff, actually. It was a bluff, albeit one that he wished he meant with every fiber of his being, but a bluff all the same. He wouldn't do that to Sherlock, not without his consent, and he knew he would never get it. But it was the bluff that was important. Whatever he could do, to make sure this piece of shit knew to _never_ get near Sherlock again.

Which was why John's anger hitched up another notch, when Oscar's answer was a slight twitch of another grin.

"Please," he scoffed. He slipped another scrape back over the pavement, just far enough to be out of reach. He touched his lip gently, eying the blood on his fingertip rather than John. "And ruin Sherlock's reputation as well? My name wouldn't be the only one to be dragged through the mud. And I daresay those _headlines_ would be much more interested in your internet star detective than they would an old professor about to retire." He shook his head disparagingly, already starting to turn away. "Whatever childish aspirations you have about ruining me, all you'll accomplish is dragging him right down with me. You want all those readers of yours to know that he had to sleep his way through school, and even then still couldn't cut it?"

John closed his eyes, and started to count to ten.

"Or... was I right, with Sherlock?" Oscar started, before he'd even reached three. "He's sleeping with you, too?" There was a short pause that reeked in smugness, and even with his eyes shut he could just _see_ the man start to smile. "You're welcome for that, by the way. He wasn't very good, with me. I had to teach--"

John cocked his fist back, and punched the man in the face for the fourth time that night.

If Sherlock had killed him tonight-- if Sherlock really had stabbed him at that restaurant, then called Mycroft from an alley covered in blood-- John would've understood. He would've understood in a heartbeat and he would've burned the body.

He stood there and looked down at where he was again sprawled on the pavement, and this time, where he'd had the good sense to stay.

And as much as he hated him-- as _much_ as he wanted to stay here, and stomp on his stomach until he coughed up blood, and make him feel as small and hurt and bruised as he'd made Sherlock--

He wasn't worth it.

His place, right now, was at home with Sherlock. And working things out so that nothing this stupid ever happened again.

Oscar Wilson's place was nowhere within a hundred mile radius of either one of them.

"Sherlock," John said, his chest filling with love, and affection, and pride, "is a dozen times the man you'll ever be. You think you could ruin him? He's destroyed men greater than you could even dream to be for breakfast. His reputation has already survived so much more than the likes of you. You're _nothing._ "

He crouched closer, still, to where he was still sprawled on the pavement. He seemed to have decided staying down was his best chance at not getting hit a fifth time. And he stiffened, when John reached for him again, he flinched away, but all John did was re-grab him by the collar and haul him back up off the round to force him to look. He would look at John. He would meet his eyes. He _would_ face this.

"You think you ruined him, but the truth is you're nothing more than a footnote in Sherlock Holmes' bibliography. You're barely even that. You're a blip on the radar that no one will even remember past the prologue. But in yours? In yours, which was already written in full the day you decided to take advantage of a fifteen year old?"

Oscar tried to flinch away again, his jaw tight and staring at John like an animal backed into a corner. It was a look he'd seen a hundred times before, in a suspect that he had chased down while Sherlock spelled out every detail of the crime to a room full of police and he was searching for a way out that wasn't there. The chance for redemption had been suffocated long before he'd ever even met Sherlock, and all the pieces had already been cast.

"Every student whose careers you tried to ruined will have a chapter," John told him quietly. "Sherlock Holmes, if he is willing, and by _god_ I hope he is, will be the main act."

And then, just like that, he let him go.

He let him go, and looked down at him on the ground-- writhing and pale and pulled back, bleeding from the mouth. Just like Sherlock had been.

He wasn't worth it.

No one was worth him becoming this.

"You'd better hope that neither one of us ever sees you again," John snapped.

Then he left him there, slumped and bleeding on the ground, and alone on the dark campus street.

* * *

And at last, everything was finally let to just fall into place.

It was easy and natural, like this was simply always how it had been meant to be. John got back to Baker Street after picking Rosie up from the disgruntled and sleepy-eyed overnight sitter, a bag packed in a rush and her favorite stuffed bee under his arm. He passed Mycroft in the door, the elder Holmes wearing a grim, exhausted expression, promising him that Sherlock was all right and sleeping it off. He also promised that his staff would make sure that Oscar Wilson did not plan any surprise visits.

John wasn't worried. Oscar had taken advantage of Sherlock, but he wasn't the type to show up drunken and raving on the street, screaming to be let in. And even if he was, Sherlock didn't need Mycroft's men to protect him. He didn't even need John-- he'd proven that tonight.

Sherlock was completely dead to the world. As tall and lanky as he was, Mycroft had clearly had difficulty getting him up the stairs, and given up entirely on battling a probably still drunkenly intractable Sherlock to stay comfortably in bed. Instead, Sherlock had wound up poured onto his side on top of of the blankets, halfway drooling onto his pillow, still fully dressed, and into such an awkward sprawl of numb limbs that he might've passed for dead.

John thumbed his thin wrist, previously folded underneath his side, and felt his breaths. His heartbeat was steady, albeit underneath admittedly cool skin, and his breaths were even and deep.

He smiled fondly, and settled Sherlock's arm back more comfortably on the mattress. "You'll be fine," he murmured. "Probably with one hell of a headache tomorrow, I think. But that's okay. This is just a small setback. You'll feel better soon, and then we'll manage this, yeah? We'll manage this tomorrow, together. No more secrets."

Sherlock didn't come close to hearing him. He just stayed crumpled on his side, mouth slack and half his hair smushed against the pillow. His face was still faintly flushed, traces of tears dried on his cheeks, but alcohol had numbed every last trace of pain away. He looked genuinely peaceful. For the first time since... since...

Since before the wedding?

Since before the fall?

He was so tired. And he had been for so long.

They both were.

John briefly squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed those thoughts out of his mind. It didn't matter how bad things were now, for either of them. What mattered was ensuring that they began tomorrow as a fresh start.

Sherlock was limp and unresisting, allowing John to gently fold him upright and pull him out of the long folds of the Belstaff. After long hours of sitting in a filthy alley filled with rubbish, it was going to need to be dry-cleaned. Next he tugged off the suit jacket and his shoes, and then he freed a few of the buttons on his shirt, enough that it no longer put any pressure on his throat, not so much as to actually expose anything. It wasn't that he hadn't seen Sherlock in much more extreme states of undress-- courtesy of Sherlock being Sherlock-- but something about these circumstances made it feel wrong.

Sherlock remained dead to the world the entire time.

Then, mannequin-like, he manipulated Sherlock down under the first layer of the blankets, and rolled him back gently onto his side. So he looked naturally asleep, instead of something much worse.

Oscar had seen Sherlock like this. He had seen him vulnerable, and unprotected, and with his barriers down. Perhaps before he'd ever built so many of those barriers up in the first place. He had seen Sherlock like this, and made the choice to use him. To hurt him.

"Get some sleep," he whispered. Somehow, his hand ended up in Sherlock's messy hair, and he brushed one long curl out of his eyes. "It'll be okay in the morning. I promise."

_I'll make it so._

* * *

As it turned out, Sherlock actually slept straight through the morning.

He slept in a pseudo-coma the first many times that John checked on him, unmoving and curled on his side. At half past nine, his leg kicked when John stuck his head in again, his long fingers flexing like he was playing an invisible piano. He groaned, mumbled, and flopped on his stomach at half past ten, and chewed gently on the corner of his pillowcase at five minutes to eleven.

John ate a quiet, early lunch with Mrs. Hudson and Rosie, texted Ella to cancel his afternoon appointment, and kept on waiting.

At 12:36, the kraken stirred.

It was with much fumbling, rolling, and one very, _very_ loud groan. He creaked to his feet audibly enough that John could hear him all the way from the sitting room, and he looked up from his laptop just in time to see Sherlock stagger, step by step, into the space of his door. He was draped still in a blanket and an untucked blue shirt, and looked like he wanted to fall flat on his face.

He looked horrendous, and absolutely beautiful.

"Good morning," John began. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock grunted, his shoulders dragging down and his head low and his face just wrecked. "My internal organs have each been separately wrung out like a flannel, and then deposited into a blunder together by Mrs. Hudson. Eleven times." He covered his face, his next noise edging into an outright moan. "Oh my _god."_

Once again, John couldn't help but smile. "Drink some water and wake up a bit. You'll feel much better." He started towards the kitchen while keeping an eye on Sherlock, making sure he didn't actually keel over to form a new home on the floor. "How much _did_ you have to drink?"

"Approximately the quantity of the Thames." He sank gratefully into the proffered chair, his head dropped back into his hands. "Three, before I left the restaurant. After that-- file not found. I think it got dropped over a banister."

"With how little you eat, and how rarely you drink, I'm surprised you managed that much. Headache?"

To his surprise, Sherlock shook his head, though he accepted the water without any grumbling. "Just nauseated. _Again._ I think I've spent the last two weeks wanting to throw up."

"Yeah? That'd be because Mycroft made you drink enough water before you passed out. The dehydration is usually what causes the headache, but the nausea's from drowning yourself in what your body thinks is a poison and wants to get rid of it. There's no quick fix for that, I'm afraid." He smirked at Sherlock again, still sitting there with his head plonked down against the mug. "You should send your brother a gift basket."

"Now I really will throw up." Sherlock sunk deeper into his chair, almost folding up into himself like a prickly porcupine. The only signs of life in him were two glittering eyes underneath the wild fluffy wreck of his hair. "I think I did throw up on his shoes, actually. _Spectacular._ I should drink more often."

John smirked again and kept silent, instead putting on the kettle for tea. It'd help settle Sherlock's stomach, as well as just giving him something to do, both of which would be sorely appreciated. Because despite having all this time to prepare, he still wasn't quite sure how to start. Should he tell Sherlock he'd done the right thing last night, in calling them for help? Should he tell Sherlock that he wasn't angry with him, for drinking? That Oscar had been _dealt with,_ and was never going to contact him again?

Sherlock, still slumped and unhappy behind him, just about submerged all the way into his glass of water, ended up making the decision for him.

"My recollection from last night has several holes. As you know. I know that I called Mycroft, but after that--" he swallowed audibly, and when John turned back around it was to find him holding his water glass in a white-knuckled grip. "I would very much appreciate a full explanation because-- I surmise that I might have imagined or dreamed several sequences of events, and it would... I would just like to be sure I'm operating on a complete and accurate data set before we proceed."

John knew exactly what Sherlock had thought he had imagined. And it was with a sad, regretful pang, because it hurt, just a little, that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to believe that what had happened had been real. But John would've thought just the same, if he'd woken up just as hungover as Sherlock and remembered what they'd said on that call.

He took a careful sip of his tea, and figured that for once, he could take the risk.

"I love you," he said.

Sherlock's head jolted up.

"I am very, very much in love with you. Yes, _you_ : Sherlock Holmes. I don't know what you remember about last night, so that's all that I know to tell you-- I am head over heels in love with you, and I am so sorry it took me so long to tell you." John took another risk, but if he thought about it, it wasn't really a risk at all. He reached out across the table to hold one of Sherlock's hands, just because it was there, just because he _could_. "You don't have to say it back. Especially if you don't... feel the same way. But I--"

"But I do," Sherlock spluttered, his eyes blown wide. "I do. I do. I feel the same. I am--" He reeled to a stop to blink at John, mouth moving silently. He looked like John had just tugged on the hard reset switch in his brain. "But you're not gay."

"Yeah. I'm not. I'm... bisexual, Sherlock."

There it was. The first time he had ever said that word aloud. Sherlock was gay, and very much a man, and here John was, another man, telling him that he loved him. He was _bisexual._

There were, he decided, much worse feelings in the world than this.

"Come on, Sherlock," he prodded. His fingers had gone cold and John wrapped them up in both of his. "You're telling me you never deduced it?"

"It's... complicated. Sexuality is complicated." Sherlock stared at him, and then down at his hands, like he was witnessing some sort of marvel. "I deduced that there had been men. But a sexual attraction isn't the same thing as being willing to establish an emotional connection. And my own deductions regarding peoples' personal feelings and intentions towards me have never been sound; researcher bias, inability to be impartial. I..." he swallowed again, this time like a fine shiver, running through him from head to toe. "I think I would... like to..."

Sherlock was pale and red-eyed, yesterday's clothes wrinkled all to ruin with his hair a bird's nest and his skin with the slightest lingering scent of whiskey. John, across from him, was tired, and had barely slept two hours, after one of the worst nights of his life. He was also pretty sure he knew what Sherlock wanted to ask for.

He sat down and he kissed Sherlock on the mouth.

Gently, at first, in case he was wrong. In case Sherlock didn't want this, to give him the room to back away. But he didn't. Sherlock _kissed him back,_ his lips dry and cracked and his hands shaking, but he kissed him. Oh, _Christ,_ this was actually happening. This--

He loved him so _much._

Sherlock kissed him for one moment, two moments, three. He made a soft sound into John's mouth, but it wasn't until the second time that he recognised it as a dry, cracked sob. "John," he groaned, and sagged forwards into the crook of his neck. "It's all-- we only--"

"I know," he whispered; his own voice was shaking. "Iknowiknowiknow."

"It's that easy. Just like that."

"It is. I know." He kissed the side of Sherlock's head, breathless, almost dizzy; he felt it too. Christ, it was _that easy._ Seven years and this was all they'd had to do.

Sherlock shuddered in his arms, and John shivered right along with him. God, they were so _stupid._

A very big part of John wanted to just... _this._ He wanted to just sit here and hold Sherlock and let Sherlock hold him. Because they'd been through enough, hadn't they? The last week, the last month, the last _year._ Sherlock clearly wasn't up to anything more and John didn't want to be either. He didn't want anything other than this right here.

He ran a hand down Sherlock's long, thin back again, marveling that this _amazing, precious_ creature was _in his arms,_ and steeled himself to go on.

They'd only gotten into this mess by refusing to actually sit down have a bloody conversation. John was not keen on repeating the mistakes that had led them here.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbled something, still slumped into him. He looked quite content enough to never move again.

"If we're going to do this." He felt Sherlock stiffen slightly, the muscles under his hand tensing, and John rubbed his hand down again and leaned his face against his wild hair. "And _believe me_ , I want to... I want to very much. But if we are, then we need to talk about Oscar. And what happened last night."

Sherlock didn't so much as lift his head out of the crook of John's neck. He held very, very still now, his shoulders not even rising for breath.

"I would really rather not," he said at last. His voice was vanishingly small, disappeared into John's shirt.

John squeezed his stinging eyes shut. "I know. I know you don't, Sherlock. But..." He hesitated, gently rubbing his hand up and down his back again. "I don't know if you remember, but last night-- you said that you were... you said that you hated him. And that you'd still rather be with him than me."

"I was drunk. I was--" Sherlock pulled back just enough to look up at him but still clung to him, his long fingers suddenly digging into his back, grasping him close as a lifeline. "I was drunk, you heard me, I had no idea what I was--"

"Sherlock, you said you were so scared of what this could be that you would rather be with someone that you can't fucking stand than me. And I know we don't really talk about things like that, but if this is going to work, then I sort of think we bloody well need to talk about that."

A silence settled in the flat, Sherlock cold and perfectly motionless, his face tilted up just enough to look at John. He looked up at him with those wide, vulnerable eyes, his arms still clutched around him and his white face drained, but beat by beat, John saw his walls start to come. He sat there _in John's arms_ but before his very eyes, he watched as Sherlock withdrew back until he was so far away behind his defenses that he might as well have been across the city, for all that John could reach him.

His features reduced back to ice cold, Sherlock smoothly extricated himself, and turned his back as gracefully as a hungover, sleep-drunk man could look. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced, his affect flat, and strode away without looking back.

John sighed, and sank back down with his head in his hands.

That could've gone better.

* * *

When the sulky genius at last reemerged, he had at least managed to piece himself back into looking like a human being again. Sherlock padded back into view barefoot and dressed in a suit that he hadn't slept in, his hair still drying and dripping onto a towel around his neck. He came to a halt to observe the room for just a moment, the fresh cups of tea, the waiting armchairs, where John sat on the sofa with his own cup.

He moved silently to his own chair, and swept up his tea without so much as a single look at John.

John waited, for a minute or two. He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye until the hard lines of tension began to fade, as Sherlock understood an interrogation was not forthcoming. He watched and drank his own tea and waited for Sherlock to reestablish himself, and remember that, if noting else, he was at least safe with John.

"My dad was a drunk."

Sherlock's head jerked up, and his X-ray gaze swiveled sideways to stare through John.

"He hit my mum, a lot. And he knew we all hated him, so he drank more. The more he drank, the more he hit her, and the angrier he got. Harry was three years older than me, so I don't really remember any better times-- I've just got my dad being an arsehole, and my mum letting him. Harry would make me hide in her closet if it was really bad. I got a lot of homework done in there."

John doubted that any of this was actually news to Sherlock. He had never talked about it with him, not once, but Sherlock _knew._ He always knew. He'd probably deduced from a loop in his handwriting that as a child he'd gotten used to scrawling his homework while in a ball in the dark underneath a bunch of coats.

It was still important to say it.

"When I was twelve," he went on, "he found out Harry was gay. We all found out Harry was gay-- I think even she did. He walked in on her kissing her girlfriend, and he was already drunk, of course, and just looking for a reason. He threw her out. Uh--" he coughed, suddenly needing to blink to clear his eyes. "Literally. He threw Harry off the porch and shouted he'd never have a filthy queer under his roof. She was fifteen, and," he coughed again, _again,_ "I was twelve."

_"John."_

"She hit her head on the way down, and ended up just... lying there. It actually wasn't that serious, but I was twelve, I didn't know that head wounds just bleed like that-- all I knew was that Harry wasn't moving and her face was just covered in blood. Dad was still shouting and Mum was crying, and I was just standing there and I really thought he'd fucking killed her. Mum told me to get in a cab with Harry and go to A&E, to say that she fell, and I was scared to death so I did."

He'd never told anyone this particular story except for Ella. Not even Mary. He'd given her a much shorter, clipped version, a very tense explanation as to why neither of his parents were invited to the wedding, and she had accepted it without pressing. He could remember it clearer than almost anything else in his life-- how Harry's blood had felt in his hands, and how it had looked black and shiny on the grass in the middle of the night, and the way she'd just _fallen_ and hadn't gotten up. Just like a certain consulting detective genius on the pavement outside Barts, so many years later.

But he'd never told anyone before besides Ella. Certainly not Sherlock. Sherlock, who'd probably deduced it all anyway from the first five minutes of meeting him.

Sherlock, who was watching him now, his jaw clenched tight, and his face as smooth and unreadable as stone.

"Harry didn't even remember what happened," John told him, smiling mirthlessly. "And I was twelve, yeah? I had no idea what queer meant, or what he'd caught Harry doing, or why it was supposed to be a bad thing. And it wasn't as if I had dear old dad as an option to ask.

"I figured out what queer meant eventually, obviously. And I knew what happened to people that were. But I thought I was okay, because I liked girls, didn't I? Harry was the one who had to be careful, but I was straight. I was safe. It was normal to think the rugby captain was hot, wasn't it? Everyone thought the exchange student was cute. It wasn't gay to shag your commanding officer, or-- or to have to go for a walk because your bloody Calvin Klein model flatmate won't put on more than a fucking sheet."

Sherlock finally unmelted from his block of ice, the tight grip of his fist starting to loosen. "You had another flatmate that walked around in a sheet?"

For god's sake-- "I'm talking about _you,_ you clot."

"But you said--" He snapped his mouth shut, his white face flushing faintly pink. It was one of the more endearing things that John had ever seen, and he rolled his eyes back.

"Yeah," he started, sobering back up. He cleared his throat and watched Sherlock only out of the corner of his eye. "So... I'm bisexual. Like I said. And maybe one of the reasons I've... been violent with you in the past is because I've always associated violence with liking other men. And I did like you, for a long time. Whether I could acknowledge it or not."

It was something he'd never forgive his dad for. It was also something he'd never forgive himself for.

"...John," Sherlock started again. And he heard the end of that sentence. _It's all right_ or _I understand_ or _it's okay._

"I'm not saying this as an excuse, by the way. I haven't lived at home in almost twenty years; at some point you have to stop blaming your mistakes on your parents. I'm also not saying this to make you feel obligated to tell me things in return. I'll listen to whatever you have to say but I don't want you to feel like you _have_ to tell me anything."

There was another period of silence, Sherlock averting his eyes again to stare down at his tea, expressionless. He was cold and pale and perfectly in control, but the tight curl of his fingers in his lap told John exactly how calm he wasn't.

"Your parents," he said finally, his voice quiet and restrained. "Your father is... dead. But your mother isn't? She's..."

John shrugged. He didn't really care, how Sherlock had deduced it. "Yeah. Dad died years ago-- got drunk again and hit his head. I'd say it was poetic justice, but I think karma's a load of rubbish and so do you. Mum moved out of the city after... I think Harry still sends her Christmas cards."

"And you don't."

"No," he said shortly. He clenched his fingers together in his lap, forcing himself to breathe deeply again. "If she wants to actually apologise, then maybe. But I have a daughter now. I can't have someone like that in her life."

There was another short silence. John, licking his lips, found that he badly wanted a drink.

Which was reason enough for him to keep his hands still, and not allow himself to so much as entertain the idea of getting one.

"John, I..." Sherlock started, and something in his voice made John stare back up in worry. "You must know that I would never-- not with Rosie. I understand she must be your priority. She's mine, too. I wouldn't ever--"

It hit John all at once, what Sherlock was trying to say, and _Jesus Christ,_ no. "No," he gasped, a new lump in his throat. "That's not what I was trying to say at all, Sherlock, of course not, how could you think...?"

Sherlock just stared at him, his brow furrowed now and his mouth sunk into a tiny, strained frown. But John knew what was behind his eyes, because he'd heard it the night before on that bloody call.

"Look," he started, and the back of his eyes still stung. "You're right. I can't have you around Rosie if you're using. Just like I'd hope you'd look after her for me if I was badly hurt or sick, and seeing me like that would scare her."

"But I--"

"But nothing. Sherlock, you are... you are _amazing_ with Rosie. I've barely even let you be there and you've still been amazing. I know you'd never do anything to hurt her." He closed his eyes again, trying to press out the memory of Sherlock's shaking voice on that horrible phone call. The muted fear underneath as he'd croaked that he couldn't lose either of them again. "I'm not naive, okay. I know... I know those cravings are always going to be there. And I know that someday something might happen, and you might slip. Setbacks happen, Sherlock. But as long as you keep trying, as long as you're serious about getting clean and staying clean, then neither of us are going anywhere."

The look on Sherlock's face was... it was too much. It was disbelieving and stunned and overwhelmed all at once, and it almost made John want to cry. Because some part of Sherlock clearly didn't believe him and that fact alone was all the difference in the world. That he treated Rosie as a privilege and not a right. It was more than John's parents had ever done.

He'd never have believed it until he'd seen it, just how good of a godfather Sherlock was. How _much_ he loved Rosie, even now, when she could do little more than babble and wave her stuffed toy in the air.

Sherlock cleared his throat after several moments, looking particularly ill at ease, as if he could barely look John in the eye. "Then... why _did_ you tell me this?"

"Because if we're going to do this-- if we're going to have a romantic relationship-- then I think there are things that you need to know about me, so we can do this right. I can't do this halfway, Sherlock. This isn't just a fling, to me. I'm taking this seriously, I want this to work more than anything in my life, and to me, that means giving us both the tools to make it work. And yes, I'm quoting Ella, here, but she's shown that she knows what she's talking about, so... honesty. Communication. All that rubbish?" He tried giving Sherlock a grin, something to coax him out of his shell by seeing that John was on just as shaky ground as he was, here. "Maybe we should try giving _all that rubbish_ a go. Because we haven't until now, and it's really not worked out very well at all."

And because he hoped that if he turned this into less of an interrogation, if he took the expectation of a monologue off of Sherlock, this would be easier. It was one thing, to sit here and demand answers out of Sherlock, out of what had quite clearly been a very painful period in his life, and one that he clearly still didn't quite understand. It was, John hoped, quite another, to establish a give and take.

If he was asking Sherlock to be vulnerable, then John could give him the same.

"I can't do this halfway, either," Sherlock said quietly, after almost a minute of silence. He spoke very suddenly and very softly, his eyes dropped back down to his lap. "I do take it seriously. I want..."

His bright eyes flicked away, looking anywhere but at John. He fiddled with his tea and shifted in his chair, the line of his jaw jumping, and John had seen him look like that far too many times these past few days for it to be okay. He resolved, right then and there, that one of the things he was going to do was make Sherlock realise he never had cause to feel that uncomfortable or worried again.

John looked back down to his laptop, waking it back up and scrolling to his email to take the pressure off of Sherlock. Because he'd meant what he said about honesty, but he also meant what he'd said earlier, too. If Sherlock wasn't ready to talk about it, then he didn't want him to feel forced. They could wait. This could come in stages. Some things didn't even have to come at all.

He just knew he had to open the door. Because if he didn't, and they started this with secrets and trauma still kept silent between them, then it was putting that many more obstacles in their path to making this work.

And this was going to work.

It was _Sherlock._

It couldn't not work.

He'd checked three emails, and started to reply to another, when Sherlock finally jerked back to life.

"He never hit me. Not once. He never forced me, either. I always said yes." His voice was edging higher-pitched, with a note of barely discernible aggression-- he sounded almost defensive. "It wasn't at all like your parents. It... it wasn't _abusive,_ John."

John closed his eyes, his throat throbbing. So Mycroft had been right, then. "You were fifteen. He was what, thirty-five?"

"Sixteen, when the sex started."

_"Sixteen."_

Sixteen.

He'd been _sixteen years old._

Sherlock breathed hard through his nose, looking a bit like a coiled, tensed spring. "Do you think I was a normal sixteen year old? I was smarter than him even back then. I was smarter than him, and richer than him, and-- I used _him,_ John. I liked being made to feel special and clever and I knew he'd keep telling me so."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you were--" John cut off to squeeze his eyes shut, fighting back another wave of fury. "What would you say, if Lestrade brought home the new intern at the Yard? The sixteen year old girl that's still in school?"

"Impossible," Sherlock scoffed, and tossed John a look of sheer derision. "Lestrade is not sexually attracted to teenagers. I'd have noticed."

"Then make her look like she's twenty! Plenty of them dress like it nowadays; make her look like she's twenty. Make her as bloody smart as you. What would you think if he started dating her?"

"Still impossible. Lestrade wouldn't do such a thing."

"And why not?" he pressed, and he could hardly fucking believe he had to press this point, to _Sherlock Holmes, bona fide genius._ But this was different. This was personal, and he'd press it as many times as he had to to drive it home. "Why is it impossible to imagine him doing that? Hmm?"

This wasn't something he should have to tell Sherlock. This _wasn't_ something he should have to fucking say.

Sherlock closed his eyes, hunched over as much as John knew his healing ribs could take. His hair hid his eyes and he yanked the towel out from around his neck with an angry tug, twisting it between his hands.

"I understand your point," he said finally, voice almost too low. "Intellectually, I mean. But... oh, _god,_ John, I don't want to _talk about this--"_

Sherlock put the towel and his tea aside, suddenly, folding himself up into an even smaller, safer ball. He tucked his chin onto his knees and locked his arms around them, wrapped up to look wounded and guarded and small. "I know Lestrade wouldn't," he said. He barely moved his mouth, chin still smushed against his knees, and his voice came out muffled. "I thought he was like Oscar. When we first met, a year after I dropped out. I thought he was the same. He said I was brilliant and that he wanted to help me, and he told me to call him Greg. Oscar said the same. He wouldn't let me call him Dr. Wilson-- I had to call him Oscar."

The nervous work of his fingers dug deeper into his trousers, his eyes slitting open and his shoulders hunching even closer around his ears. "I was so _sure_. I wouldn't call him Greg. I kept being as awful to him as I could, I thought-- I just wanted him to get it over with and stop being _nice_ to me, I thought then--" Sherlock shook his head back and forth over his knees, his voice stumbling, and John's heart nearly cracked. "He got angry at me plenty of times. But he never made any advances, no matter how opportunities I gave him. Once I pretended to pass out into his bed while wearing a disgusting amount of leather, and he just dropped me in the shower. He listened when I said no. Even about silly things. He listened."

"Because he's a good person," John told him gently. "And that fuckknuckle isn't."

_I thought you didn't tell Oscar no, then? Why did you test that with Greg, if you always told Oscar yes?_

John left that alone, for now. He believed that Sherlock had verbally said yes. He also believed that it hadn't remotely been an enthusiastic one. It hadn't at all been something Sherlock had actually wanted to do, and Oscar had known that. And Sherlock had known he'd known.

All that did was reaffirm John's decision that this was something they needed to talk about. Right now. He didn't want to start a relationship with someone who'd give him a miserable, reluctant, unwilling but verbal _yes_ on top of a thousand unspoken but heartfelt _nos_ and think that was good enough.

"I think you can call him Greg now," he teased, when Sherlock seemed to have run out of steam and now just sat there in his curled up ball, his anxious, long fingers still digging into his trousers. He figured the mood could use a bit of lightening. "If you wanted to. I'm pretty sure he's more than proven himself by now."

Sherlock waved his hand from his ball, not looking at him. "Absolutely not. If I called him Greg now he might simply die from the shock of it, and then I would never get an interesting case again." His mouth was tight again, but this time it was in the way that John knew hid a smile, that very small, but very genuine smile, and his heart melted just a bit more.

Time for a break, he decided. Sherlock had done good enough.

"More tea?" he offered, and got to his feet.

The little shuffle he got from the loosening ball was answer enough.

* * *

"I knew he was using me," was what Sherlock said next.

They had resettled back in the kitchen, this time in adjacent chairs, and close enough to touch. Sherlock's long, elegant arm was flat along the table, his finger splayed, as if daring John to touch. Except it wasn't a dare, because John _could_ touch now, and he did.

It was closer, more intimate, somehow, than even when he'd all but had his tongue in Sherlock's mouth just that morning. He slid his hand over Sherlock's, the subtle warmth of his palm, the graceful curl of his fingers around his that he got in return.

"I always knew it," Sherlock said, almost casually, conversationally. "He liked capable students, like me-- students who were capable of succeeding under a lack of guidance or supervision, because he was incompetent at both. He loved students like me, who would succeed with or without him, and make him look good. And I liked to feel successful." He turned his free hand around his cup of tea, watching it with distant eyes. "His expectations were... increasingly unreasonable. But I was equally exceptional. And what I wanted was acknowledgement, and I knew he genuinely was fond of me. Back then, at least."

John bit his tongue hard. He made himself keep perfectly still, and especially his hand, still folded around Sherlock's. He knew it was important to let him tell this in his own way, in his own time, without someone sitting by to speak up and tell him that what he felt was _wrong._

But fucking hell, he _really_ didn't want Sherlock to talk about how Oscar had treated him as _positive_ in any way whatsoever. 

Sherlock noticed, of course. He glanced at John, then down to their hands, drawing his finger down one of his. "He is a reprehensible human being that made a habit of sexually abusing his students, all while being convinced he was God's gift to science, and likely has a personality disorder of some kind. I know all of this, John. But he did make me feel... good. As long as I was capable of meeting his increasingly impossible standards, which I always was, he loved to make me feel unendingly special in return."

He went quiet for a moment again, his eyes still down on the table. His expression looked curiously calm, a twisted parallel of John's own anger and disgust; it was as if Sherlock had passed off everything he should've felt and given it to John instead.

John would take it without complaint. If it would've actually helped Sherlock.

"I was clever, of course," Sherlock went on. Casually again, like he wasn't bothered at all. "More than clever enough for him. But also-- stupid. Very, very stupid."

"You were fifteen." _You great, sodding clot, you were fifteen._ "You were--"

"Everyone knew what Oscar was. The entire student body knew, and most of the faculty at least recognised him as an incompetent scientist that slapped his name on others' work. But the rumors of what he did with students were... everyone _knew._ Everyone knew that I wasn't special at all, but just the next domino in his ever repeating pattern. Everyone knew. Except me, John." He swallowed hard, and for the very first time, his voice shook. "Victor tried to warn me. I blew him off."

Had Victor been the only person to try to help him at all? _Everyone knew,_ Sherlock said. So how many people had known? How many people had known some of or exactly what was going on, and said nothing? The only person to try and help him had been someone who'd needed help just as badly and never gotten it.

He hated them. He'd hated them before and he hated every single staff member at that school now. He hated the ones who'd blown Sherlock off, he hated the ones who must've felt something was off but ignored it, and he hated the ones who'd believed Oscar over him.

"That was good of Victor," John said, squeezing Sherlock's fingers again. It was a battle to keep the words calm, but he did it because he knew the last thing that would help right now was letting him see just how angry he was. "That still doesn't make you stupid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to blow _him_ off now, but John pushed his chair just close enough to kiss the corner of his mouth and didn't let him. Because he could do this, now. He was allowed to kiss Sherlock, and it was as impossible as it was incredible. "Come on. I _know_ you don't need me to stroke your ego here. You're cleverer than he could ever be even on your worst day."

Sherlock sighed again, but it was just a bit easier, now. He leaned his face against John's, then turned to meet him mid-kiss, a foul wrinkle of tension softening away. "I know." He kissed John back, quietly, almost gently.

He leaned his head against John's for a moment, breathing against him. His fingers had curled almost shyly into the hem of his shirt, and that was impossible and incredible, too. Everything about this was better than John could've ever imagined and more than he could've ever believed.

Then:

"I got sick my last year. Stomach ulcer."

"I know, Mycroft told me."

 _"Tosser."_ He pulled back to press his face against John's hair, his frown deepening severely. "Nobody asked him."

"I think I might've, actually."

"Well, no one cares what he thinks." Sherlock groaned and dropped back, covering his face with his hands, but this time he just looked tired rather than overcome. All of this was, still, coming after a pretty damn exhausting night. "Believe it or not, I haven't always been so cavalier about my transport. Not that I was ever particular about it, but this was the first time it had ever betrayed me and I was eighteen, waking up in hospital, with a doctor telling me I had nearly died with how poorly I was taking care of myself, and that if I didn't change something then it was going to happen again."

His doctor had been right. Ulcers tended to be resolved safely and with little fuss, but ones that went untreated could make a patient seriously ill, and Sherlock's had been untreated. Sherlock's had been untreated for what sounded like a very long time, in a patient that already hadn't been taking care of himself.

Something of his thoughts must've shown on his face, because Sherlock glanced at him again and his eyes softened, from serious back to teasing. "For the record, I actually didn't care what he had to say much, even back then. It was more knowing that they'd had to cut pieces of my stomach out of me, and that I'd thrown up blood all over one of my professors. It's a shame-- I think that one actually liked me, before that incident."

"We may need to have a discussion about what _cavalier about your health_ actually means, Sherlock."

Sherlock made anther face and sat back, and this time, he actually did look _cavalier_ himself. "Dull." He pursed his lips and re-steepled his hands, like he was physically wrapping them around whatever stress he still had and trapping it there, pressing it into nothing. "My point is simply that I was... trepidatious. Enough so to listen. I told Mycroft to piss off, of course, it was none of his business, but-- I tried to take the doctor seriously. I went to see Oscar as soon as I was released, and he'd heard what happened, of course, and he was appropriately worried about me. So I thought it would go well, when I tried to tell him I had to cut back. I told him I couldn't stay late in lab for him anymore, and I couldn't teach his classes that semester either. Which I wasn't supposed to even be doing anyway, though I had for years, but this time I couldn't. And I told him so. Had a bloody doctor's note and everything."

He lapsed into another silence, his mouth tightly shut. A frown creased across his face, his eyes distant, and John gripped his hand even tighter. _Go on. It's okay._

"It was the first time I'd ever actually said no to him. Said no and stood my ground, at least. He'd always been able to convince me, before. This was the first time it wouldn't work. And when he realised I wouldn't change my mind this time, he wasn't... he." Sherlock shifted, his face settling into something very cold, almost detached. Like he wasn't in the room at all. "He wasn't happy."

John's heart beat so hard in his ears he felt the blood pounding in his head.

"I should've punched him more."

Sherlock smiled slightly again, ducking his head. "Perhaps." He pulled his hands apart to touch John's again, pulling it closer so he could see the state of his knuckles. Red, scraped, and bruised. Not enough, in John's mind. Not remotely enough. "It ruptured his fantasy, I think. It was the turning point that happened with every student of his before-- the moment when they stopped being able to meet his expectations, and he realised his special star was about to let him down. It was what happened to Victor. I'd just been conceited enough to think I was special enough that it wouldn't happen to me."

"Sherlock--"

"It's _fine_ ," Sherlock snapped. Forcefully. Too forcefully. John wanted to tell him to stop, that he didn't have to go on, but Sherlock was already stampeding ahead and the words were too fast, like they were festering inside and he had to get them out. "He promised me he'd help me. He said that we'd do whatever we had to, for me to be okay. Then he got me drunk and fucked me. Then I woke up alone, and with his schedule of classes that he expected me to teach in my hand. He hadn't--" He blinked, and the hard glaze of anger was finally culled under an innocent, almost childlike confusion. Like he wasn't hurt by what had happened, but he didn't understand. He just didn't understand. "It was as if he didn't remember anything at all that we'd talked about just the night before. Except I _knew_ he did, but nothing was different at all. Except my stomach hurt, because I wasn't supposed to be drinking at all, and..."

"And, what?" John drew a little closer again, just close enough to squeeze his hand. "What is it?"

No. He shouldn't have been drinking, barely a few days after stomach surgery. He shouldn't have been there at all. He should've been home, somewhere safe, with someone to look after him, instead of trying to make his case that he deserved to be treated with respect to this _bloody buggering arsehole--_

Sherlock heaved out a long, shaking sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'm realising now that what occurred then was probably a panic attack. Or something of that nature. I'd had them before, with Oscar, but this was the worst one. I nearly passed out and was thoroughly convinced that I was going to die, despite--"

He cut himself off suddenly in a sharp intake of breath, pressing his mouth shut. It was as if he'd only just remembered there was an audience, and one that he didn't want to go on for.

John, meanwhile, was so furious he could barely see straight.

He shouldn't have just punched him. He should've done so much more. He should've kicked him, should've fucking _stabbed him,_ should've--

"Yes," Sherlock coughed, clearing his throat. "In any case. Oscar was irritated with me. And that became anger, when he realised that this time I wouldn't be able to rise to his expectations. I was too sick. I tried, but I kept being able to barely leave my room, never mind stand up in a lecture hall or lab. I kept not being able to eat, and then not being able to keep down what I could."

"You had an ulcer," John cut in, unable to stop himself. And probably an anxiety disorder, by the sound of it. "Your stomach tissue was irritated and there was nothing you could've done to stop that. Yes, Sherlock, even you."

 _"Yes,_ John. Obviously." He rolled his eyes, glowering back down at his tea with a vicious, almost feral stare. _"I_ know that. Oscar didn't. Or if he did, he didn't much care. He got more and more disillusioned with me when he realised I wasn't so special after all, and withdrew what little support he'd been offering. Consequently, my work slipped even more. He started spreading rumors about me to the other staff; by the time of my final hearing, he hadn't done anything in our meetings for months but tell me how much of a failure I was. Though he was usually too disgusted to touch me, if you really want me to find a silver lining."

He shared another slight smile with John, there. Like it was a joke.

John wondered if he might be able to call Mycroft back, and let him know that if Oscar Wilson showed up again, then he was just going to have to figure out how to get them another pardon for murder.

"In any case," Sherlock went on, his smile fading. "By the end, the whole panel had been hearing stories for those same months about how I skipped lab and meetings, that my work was shoddy, and that my research was incompetent. Mycroft oafishly trying to pull strings just made it worse."

Once again, the pieces slipped slowly into place. He remembered the stories he'd heard when he'd gone to Cambridge alone, professors complaining about a sloppy and lazy Sherlock, one who'd tried to skate by on his rich brother's connections, and he sighed. "So you left." He didn't blame him.

Sherlock nodded jerkily once, his little finger bouncing again against the table. "I had no need for a piece of paper to call me a chemist and by that point I had no respect for anything Cambridge could give me. I walked out and I promised myself over a toast of cocaine I would never step foot back on that campus as long as Oscar was still employed there."

And John had made him. John hadn't listened to Sherlock saying _no,_ and he'd made him break that promise, after decades of holding to it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to be calm. Sherlock didn't want apologies from him. And right now, apologies weren't at all what Sherlock needed.

"You won't see him again," he said instead, keeping the words firm. He touched his hand against his wrist again, gently tracing the pale, warm inside. "I think you and I scared him off, last night. And if we somehow didn't, I know you'll send him packing if he ever shows his face around here again. He's scared of anyone with a backbone, and you've got more of a spine than him any day of the week, just over refusing to get the milk."

Sherlock smiled again, very slightly. But it was tired, under the surface, very, very tired, and it fell as he ducked his face back against his hand, rubbing hard at the lines and wrinkle of pain in his brow. "I very much do not want to talk about this," he insisted again.

There was a very small waver there, underneath the words. Minuscule, but present.

He had tried. And clearly, he had tried until he was at the end of his rope.

John squeezed his hand, one last time, and then let go. "Okay. Okay, Sherlock. We don't have to do anymore today." He watched the hard line of his jaw for a moment, how there was no relief there at all, and moved closer to kiss him again instead of pressing the point.

He could tell Sherlock liked kissing, at least. He could feel it in how he moved under his hands, and the sounds he made, and the way he kissed back that he liked it. He wasn't just reciprocating because it was what he thought John wanted. This was something that made Sherlock happy.

He kissed him until his face had started to finally soften under his hands, and he'd finally fought the start of a smile out of him. He kissed him again and curled his hands in his still damp, drying hair.

"You are special, you know," he said, leaning his face back against Sherlock's. "You are incredible and amazing and the most special person I'll ever meet, and it's not at all just because of how smart you are. You could lose half your brain cells tomorrow and you'd still be just the same amazing idiot that I love today."

Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards again. "Flatterer," he accused, but there was no heat in it, and he kissed John again.

* * *

Sherlock seemed to want, very much, to lay down on the sofa after this, whether John was there or not. Perhaps specifically if John _was_ there. John nudged him into at least sitting upright, between his unsettled stomach and his still healing ribs, but his long legs still ended up tangled with John's.

For someone who'd never had a proper relationship before, he sure knew how to cuddle. Or he was just still so tired from the night before he hadn't yet built up any of his usual walls.

Whichever one it was, the least John could do was provide.

He let Sherlock slowly calm by degrees again, the hard lines of tension fading as he began to relax against John. His eyes were shut, but John could tell by how he was breathing that he wasn't asleep, or even trying to be. He was just tired. Worn out from the night before, and everything that John had asked from him today.

So maybe it was John's turn to share a little again.

"Mary never hit me or Rosie. Not once."

Sherlock's head jerked up again, all pretense at sleep discarded in an instant. He stared at John with his usual laser focus and with the man's such close proximity, John could tell that he'd all but stopped breathing.

"I think she knew if she hit Rosie I would leave her, and there was nothing to be gained by hitting me. Maybe she knew you'd kill her if she did, I don't know. She--"

"I would have," Sherlock said sharply. John glanced at him to find him sat even more upright and his hands curled together in his lap, gone tense, as if electrified. He blinked at John and swallowed, some of the fervor cooling, but the promise underneath it held fast. "I suspected she never would, of course. I observed and didn't deduce any warning signs of potential violence directed at you or Watson. But if there had been, John. If there had ever been--"

"I know, you berk." There was no doubt in his mind what Sherlock would've done. There was no doubt because there was no end to what Sherlock would do to keep him safe, and there was no end at all to what he would do for Rosie.

John sighed, trying to dislodge Sherlock's heel from where it was now digging into his thigh. His hand somehow ended up hooked around his ankle, purely for the relief of the contact. "That's not what I meant, anyway. My point is that she never... physically hurt me or Rosie in any way. But you were right a few days ago, Sherlock. I wasn't happy in that marriage. If you really want me to be honest about it, I was miserable not even a month after the bloody wedding, and finding out my wife had been lying to me since the day we'd met really didn't help."

Sherlock looked away, seeming to shrink, a little. To just fold inwards, with his arms still gently curled around his stomach and his fingers twisting in his shirt. "You were meant to be happy," he said softly, and... _fuck._ How much of what Sherlock had done was for that end goal? _You were meant to be happy._

 _._ "Mary was... exciting," Sherlock started again, his voice wavering. "She was supposed to be enough. She--"

"She was a former assassin that wanted nothing to do with that life anymore. What she wanted was a nice, respectable doctor with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence and who'd host a bloody fucking dinner party every Sunday. She wanted me to be that someone and-- she really didn't care that I wasn't it." He looked flatly at Sherlock, to his narrowed, unreadable eyes, his mouth pressed shut and his face white, like he'd just been made to eat something incredibly sour. "Did you know she hated it when I went out on cases? Even before Rosie was born. I'd be with you for three hours on a Saturday, and when I got back she'd say she hoped I'd had fun on my playdate with the madman, but now it'd be just lovely if I could start on the chores like a grown-up."

It had taken a while, for the lighthearted teasing to turn into mocking. And it had taken John even longer to realise it for what it was. But that was what it had been. Mocking. Mocking the blog, mocking the cases, mocking Sherlock. Once or twice, even right in front of him, and with John in the room. But Sherlock, after being so used to Anderson and Donovan brazenly calling him a freak right there to an audience of the world at crime scenes, hadn't quite picked up on it; John had seen it on his face at the time. Mary had once commented that John was perfectly prepared for a newborn to be screaming and snotting all over him at the slightest inconvenience, but that at least _their baby_ was eventually going to make it worth his while. Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and parried back that at least he'd done _something_ for John, which was more than a certain someone could say, all without realising that it hadn't been a joke. It had possibly never once been a joke.

What had John been supposed to do? _Don't talk to him like that, Mary?_ When Sherlock clearly didn't care? When _she_ clearly didn't care in the slightest sense what he thought about it-- when she'd already _fucking shot him?_

The strangest thing about it was, Mary had actually liked Sherlock. They could've been good friends, if the situation had been different. But she hadn't liked what he'd been for John, and... that had taken precedent.

"Ella thinks," he said, "that it was abusive."

Sherlock frowned at him again. That word, that one loaded, dangerous word. _Abusive._

It was all Sherlock needed to realise that this was less about John and Mary than he'd thought, and about Oscar instead.

John kept going before Sherlock could open his mouth to figure out a way to derail it.

"I'm not sure if I agree with her. It wasn't anything like my parents and hell, none of us shot each other again, so it could've been worse. And I know that I wasn't exactly husband of the year, either. But..."

But, what, exactly?

She hadn't hit their newborn daughter, so he should be grateful?

She hadn't shot anybody else and then had the gall to sit there and claim she'd done nothing wrong, so he should count his blessings?

She had lied to him since the day they'd met, tried to kill his best friend when she knew better than anybody else that Sherlock's death was John's _life_ , and walked out on him and Rosie without a second thought, but hey, she hadn't tried to smack anyone around like his dad, so he should be glad for small miracles?

He didn't want to be glad for it. He was grateful for how she'd been there for him after Sherlock's death, and he would _always_ be grateful for Rosie, but he couldn't be glad for the rest of it any more. He was tired of this dance, he was tired of that look on Sherlock's face, and right now, he was tired of Mary.

"Sod the labels," he said. "Sod all of it. I don't care what you call it. It was a bloody awful marriage. Mary was in love with the idea of Mrs. Dr Mary Watson and what I could do for her more than she'd ever loved me. She only cared if I was happy so much as it affected her. And I knew I was married to someone who didn't actually care about _me,_ only what I could do for her, and I was miserable because of it."

He knew he didn't need to spell it out anymore. Sherlock was smart enough. He'd hear the parallel.

He just... he needed Sherlock to hear it. Not just to realise that what Oscar had done to him had been abuse, he realised, but to hear about his marriage, too. He wanted Sherlock to know because he didn't want to keep secrets. He didn't want to found a relationship, _this_ relationship, with someone he loved so much, and handicap it from the start.

John sat for several moments, just looking down at Sherlock's long legs stretched out over his lap. He had never, ever thought he'd actually be this close to Sherlock, and yet here he was. Here they were. Sherlock, warm and pliable all over him, within hugging distance, and if John leaned over to kiss him right now, he knew Sherlock would kiss him right back. It was _unbelievable._

And as easy and amazing and _wonderful_ as this was, he also knew how easy it would be to break.

Which was why it was so important that they do this right.

John stroked his leg for another moment, gathering his words. He waited until he'd felt Sherlock start to uncurl again, emerging, still bristling, out of his shell. He waited until he saw Sherlock smile out of the corner of his eye and begin to lean even closer, clearly with aims to put all of this difficult, uncomfortable conversation behind them.

"I think we should... wait."

"Wait for what, Mrs. Hudson to come up and see?" Sherlock caught his hand in his hair and pressed his face to his neck again. He was so _warm._ "A fair point, she'll probably bake us a cake in celebration--"

"You know what I mean. I don't think--" John closed his eyes, because oh, _fuck,_ this was going to not go well. He measured his breaths for another moment, keeping himself calm, listening to the warmth and comfort that was Sherlock, pressed so close to him."I don't think that you're ready for a relationship right now, Sherlock."

Beside him, Sherlock went very, very still. The hand playing with his hair froze solid, and Sherlock's smile dropped in an instant.

Off to a great start, then.

"You said you were serious." Sherlock pulled back from John with his face transformed, pale as milk, and underneath his hard eyes there was something close to genuine fear. "You _said_ you were serious. That you wanted to--"

"And I _am_ serious, Sherlock. That's exactly why I'm saying this. I don't want us to rush into this and wind up screwing it up, and the last thing I _ever_ want to do is to hurt you."

"You won't." He started to draw back further, already withdrawing into himself, his shoulders lifting and his jaw tight but there was just the faintest quiver in his voice that betrayed everything underneath it. "You're not remotely like Oscar, or Mary, or-- whatever it is that you think you'd do, John, _no_. You'd _never._ "

"But I have in the past, Sherlock-- and I don't even mean just intentionally! You voluntarily got up and went on a bloody date with him, you didn't to so badly you almost got sick, but you did it anyway, all because you wanted to make me happy. You didn't want to tell me no. This after you just as good as told me you never wanted to have sex with him at all, but you never could properly tell him no, either!" The very idea of that happening with Sherlock, of thinking it was something that Sherlock wanted to do, that he was making Sherlock feel good, only to find out later he hadn't wanted any of it, that he'd only done it because John had wanted him to...

It was worse than the morgue. He almost wanted to be sick at the thought of it.

"That doesn't exactly scream _ready for a relationship,_ Sherlock," he started again, his voice weak. "That's--"

"That wasn't why." He curled closer into himself, his knees pulled up and his face almost hidden behind them, his big, expressive eyes still watching John. "That wasn't... entirely why. It was... I only wanted to see if I could do it. Specifically with him. I wouldn't have seen him again after that night regardless, but you said I should do it and I... wanted to see if I was capable of it at all." He lowered his eyes again, his mouth twitching. "Experiment failed in that regard, I suppose."

It hadn't failed at all. Christ, was that what he thought? Why was he so eager to spin everything around into being his own fault? The experiment hadn't failed, Sherlock hadn't failed, the premise had just been flawed from the very start. He... he was such a mad _idiot._ He'd gotten through that night and even gotten the better of Oscar at the end, he'd stood up on his own two feet and made a fool of him right there in front of everyone-- how could he think that he'd _failed?_

"That's my point exactly, Sherlock," he said softly, the words just a little bit thick. "I'm not saying I don't want this to happen, because I _do,_ I want it more than anything. I love you. But if we're going to do this-- and we don't have to! Forget all that fucking _rubbish_ I said about romantic entanglement, Sherlock, if we decided we were happier like this, then that's _fine!_ You are perfectly fine exactly the way you are. But--" He moved closer to him still, holding Sherlock's gaze even through how clear it was that he wanted to break away. "But _if_ we're going to do this, it needs to be because it makes both of us happy. Not just me. And to be sure that it does, I think you... I think _both_ of us just need a little bit of time. That we should wait until you're ready. We're ready. Because I want this to work. And what you just said... that's not _working,_ Sherlock. Nothing about what we've been these past few months is working."

John was not particularly surprised when Sherlock's answer to this was to rise up to his feet, and jerk towards the kitchen with his back to him like an angry, spurned wraith.

It was something that he'd had to say. He remained firm on that. No matter how much Sherlock didn't want to hear it, and no matter how unhappy he was now.

Because he was very clearly unhappy.

Sherlock had paced across the room to just _stand there_ , seemingly only to have his back to John. He'd known Sherlock wouldn't be happy to hear it, because it was everything that Sherlock would hate. It was being treated like there was something wrong with him. Something fragile, a broken piece, that needed protecting.

He _wasn't_ broken, of course. He was not. But there were pieces of him that had been hurt, and that needed looking after. Pieces that he'd neglected until now, and that would hurt him again if he let them.

If this was going to work, then he knew they had to do this right. Even if it meant hurting Sherlock right now, because this was about protecting him from being hurt even worse later on down the line if they let this go on.

Sherlock had just all but had a panic attack over a man that had abused him. That he couldn't even bring himself to label as abuse, and that he'd been bloody terrified of, but still forced himself to confront because all he'd cared about was that _John was happy._

Just a few weeks ago, he'd willingly laid himself out for John to kick him until he'd been coughing up blood, and looked up at the people trying to help him and announced _he's entitled._

No matter how much Sherlock hated it, he wasn't ready to start another relationship right now. He especially wasn't ready to start one with John.

Sherlock made tea. He stood in the kitchen, with his back to John, and he made tea. He stood there with his back to him and he drank the whole thing. He drank it, and then he clattered the empty cup down to the counter, and he stood there with his back tense and his shoulders hunched and every inch of him radiating a low, thrumming energy that was almost electric. It was like the air itself was being turned to static, infected by the anxious anger overflowing out of Sherlock because all six foot two of him was too small to contain it.

He spun back about to face John, his chin lifted and his eyes ablaze, and said, "I loved Victor."

John stiffened.

"I loved him," he said again. Defiant, almost like a challenge; daring John to hear it and daring John to believe it. He remained in the kitchen, up on his feet and looming over John like a vengeful, furious shadow. "And he said that he loved me. It never would've worked, though. He could never get past how guilty he felt. He looked at me and on some level always just saw the stupid, conceited boy that had been with Oscar, and that was it. He could never bring himself to do more than kiss me. By the end I was twenty, and smarter than him, and I was on more coke than he could ever take but he still couldn't do it. Some part of him always saw me as fifteen, and naive, and-- a child. A child that needed to be taken care of."

John took a deep breath, trying to swallow back his own nausea, his own fury, his own disgust. He felt sick at heart.

Once again, Victor had been the only person trying to look out for Sherlock. And once again, it sounded like he'd gone about it in exactly the wrong way.

"Sherlock. He was only trying to--"

"I know what he was trying to do. That doesn't mean that it helped." Sherlock folded his arms tightly, still a thrumming lightning rod, like he'd been set on fire and was burning inside. Burning all the way to ash. "He was even probably right to do it, in the beginning. I found him two days after I dropped out of school and I was a walking catastrophe. I'd say that Mycroft exaggerated whatever he told you, but I'm not sure that's possible. I had panic attacks, I couldn't eat, I was still throwing up and now I was a very new drug addict. But he was kind to me. He let me sleep in his bed, and he let me eat his instant noodles for free, and he let me insult him and scream at him and be a generally be a vile, terrible, awful human being. And I got better. But he didn't change, John. He never stopped feeling guilty and he could never stop treating me as that same stupid boy that showed up at his flat and had a panic attack when he smelled alcohol."

John didn't know what he was supposed to do.

He knew what Sherlock was trying to say, and-- god, it made sense. He heard the story Sherlock was spelling out with Victor and as badly as he wanted this to work, he knew he couldn't go too far in the other direction. He couldn't be... _too_ careful. But--

 _Christ,_ it wasn't that simple. It couldn't be. Because Sherlock wasn't okay, he wasn't even close, neither of them were. And the right thing to do here _wasn't_ to just ignore that.

Sherlock must've seen something of it on his face, because he softened, just a little. The first stayed in his eyes but the hard anger behind it began to fade, the tension taut in him from head to toe loosening, like a bolt that had been turned too tight. "We have wasted so much time already, John. If we were to have been waiting all these years for the... for the Right Time-- when would that have even been? Between me being dead and you being married, and then, and then, _John_ \-- I could step outside and get hit by a car tomorrow! I want-- I..."

His words trailed uselessly off into nothing, collapsing underneath something that was so miserable, so _hopeless,_ and then suddenly it was as if a piece in him had crumbled. "I want _this,_ John, I know that I want this, I know that you want this. We both want it, why are you telling me no still; why is every other piece in place but you insist that we can't?"

That was it. He couldn't take this anymore. "Come here," he started, "just-- come over here, Sherlock--" and it was probably a bit not good that Sherlock melted under his words just like that and crossed over to him like being reeled in on a string.

They sat quietly for long enough. Minutes on end, Sherlock just folded around John, all long legs and arms, and this time John let him because he knew Sherlock needed it more than he'd ever care about the healing pain in his sides. "We'll figure this out," he whispered, the words lost into the hair buried against his neck. "I promise, Sherlock. I _promise_ this'll work."

This wouldn't end like Sherlock and Victor had. For any number of reasons, really, but he heard what Sherlock was most worried about there, and it wouldn't happen. That couldn't happen to them.

"Okay," he started finally, his hands burying deeply into Sherlock's hair. He just wanted to pull him up onto the sofa and hold him there and never let him go. "Point taken. It's... you have a point."

"I know," Sherlock said, his voice muffled into John's jumper. He shuddered and sniffed, curled over onto himself even more, his drying hair now almost fluffy and tickling the bottom of his chin. "Of course it's logical. I came up with it."

John waited for another minute, his arms slung tightly around Sherlock's back. Sherlock stayed against him, his face hidden and his fingers clinging to his jumper, and once again John let him just stay there. Unmoving and pale and _scared_.

"We'll start slow," he said, feeling the rise and fall of his back. "Okay? Is that okay?"

Sherlock's head nodded again, still without looking up.

"And I'd feel a lot better if you agreed to... if you at least tried to keep talking to me about it. Or Ella, or another--"

"You," Sherlock insisted.

Yeah. "Okay," he sighed, brushing through his hair. "I just... I want to do this right, Sherlock. I _never_ want to hurt you again, but. I especially don't want to hurt you on accident, just because you thought you couldn't or it wasn't worth speaking up to tell me to stop. I don't want you to... hurt yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock started to pull away, lifting his head up to stare at John with wide, indignant eyes. "I've never--"

"I'm not just talking about cutting yourself or whatever you're picturing that you've never done. I'm talking about the drugs. I'm talking about jumping off bloody rooftops and planning suicide missions. I'm talking about all these harebrained _stupid_ fucking plans of yours where you think you need to save me by hurting yourself. That doesn't help me, Sherlock. You, getting hurt, seeing you hurt, _that_ hurts me. Okay? Do you understand that?" He threw caution out the fucking window and caught Sherlock's face in his hands, stroking his high cheekbones, his hair, the lines under his eyes. "I will _never_ want you to put yourself in danger. I will _never_ want you to be hurt. I don't care how amazing and foolproof you think your 5D chess game plan to get yourself halfway killed is, I do not _care_ , Sherlock. Because I can't fucking do this if every time I turn around you've gotten yourself hurt and it's because you did it to help me."

He stared into Sherlock's eyes, not letting go, not letting him shy away. Because this was non-negotiable. He meant this and he _needed_ Sherlock to understand it.

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock drew back out of his hands, freeing his face, his pale features and blue eyes entirely inscrutable. But he allowed John to drop his arm around his shoulders in replacement without protest. He let John tug him back onto the sofa beside him, not quite looking at him, not quite looking away, the long line of his throat pale and elegant as he forced a swallow.

"I will," he started, then swallowed again. "I will try." His eyes slid to him, pale but heartfelt. "I meant what I said. I'm not good at this, I don't have the data, John, but... I am serious about it. I want this to work."

"And so do I, Sherlock." He smiled back, emotion stinging at the back of his throat, and somehow ended up allowing Sherlock's arm to slide again around his back as he dropped his face against his shoulder. "With everything that we have between us, I think we will. I think we'll be okay."

Sherlock nodded back, saying nothing. The tight grip of his fingers into his jumper was words enough.

Another silence settled, this one at least marginally more comfortable than before. Sherlock kept his head bowed and leaned into John's side without resistance, hair brushing his shoulder, his fingers locked back together and almost unnaturally still. "So," he said finally, his voice rough. "What does... what exactly does _taking it slow_ mean?"

"Well." John leaned his head against Sherlock's for a moment, focusing on just willing himself to relax. "I think, instead of spending the rest of the day snogging on the sofa, or trying to invent reasons to not go back to your bedroom, we could go downstairs, and see if Mrs. Hudson's willing to feed us. Hmm? If you're feeling better?" He glanced at Sherlock sideways, watching the play of his mouth as he considered his options. "Rosie's downstairs, in any case, so we can pick her up, if you'd like. Maybe you could keep an eye on her while I made a Tesco's run, because you've really got nothing here but tea and what I _think_ is a decomposing liver from Barts."

Sherlock leaned silently onto him, motionless and just breathing through the silence. He let John's hand trail up and down his back, and for just a moment, he felt Sherlock smile, very slightly, into his shoulder.

"Deal," the genius rumbled, and pulled upwards out of John's arms.

* * *

One soft, well-worn bee plush was very quickly thrown at John, and then, batted at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson was the only one to escape unscathed, pushing cups of tea at all the adults in the room while Rosie matched her little hand against a bewildered Sherlock's. Mrs. Hudson was over the moon at it all, and Sherlock sat there on the floor exhausted and bleary-eyed and beaming, and John was ecstatic.

This was right. He could feel it.

This was how things were meant to be.

And this was how things were _going_ to be.

Later that night, when they were back in 221B, with Sherlock still sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to John, and matching fingers with Rosie. Rosie batted his face gently again with the bee while John heated leftovers from downstairs, because he had been right, earlier-- there was nothing edible left in the flat aside from tea.

"Mycroft has always been normal," Sherlock spoke up suddenly. "Comparatively speaking."

 _"Mycroft?"_ John raised an eyebrow, barely able to hold back a snicker. That was perhaps the first compliment he'd ever heard Sherlock pay his brother, in all the years that he'd known him. "Mycroft. Who broke into the flat last night to search for drugs that you weren't on and that weren't here, and traced you on his second phone, and then called his army of secret cars to ferry us around the city."

"I did say comparatively. No, Watson, we do not eat our stuffed animals. But no, I meant--" His voice dropped even lower and he hunched a bit into himself, still folded up on the floor. John placed the cup of tea in the chair next to him, and Sherlock ignored it completely. "He has always been much more capable at reading and accurately responding to social cues than me. He thinks they are a waste of time, but he is at least capable of it, when the situation demands. It's why he recognised Oscar for what he was and I did not."

John's amusement faded as quickly as it had come. He kept his mouth shut, but privately, all he could think was that, once again, Sherlock was being extremely unfair to himself. Mycroft had read the situation better than Sherlock because he had been an adult, with life experience, and had had the opportunity to observe relationships in others and recognise when one was healthy and one was not. Sherlock had been _fifteen,_ and on his own for the first time. Mycroft had been neither of those things. But today had already been difficult enough. Now wasn't the time to try and again drive those points home.

"Sherlock," he started, more than a little unsure what to say, "what exactly are you trying to tell me?"

He blew out a frustrated sigh, his fingers locked together under his chin. "I am saying that-- who I am is not simply a choice to be difficult. Sometimes it is, because I agree with Mycroft, most of the niceties that I can emulate are a waste of time, but... I am still only capable of emulating them. I don't understand most of them, John, and I will never be... normal."

John frowned.

Better question, then... _where exactly is this coming from?_

"Okay," he said. "So I suppose I should ask why on earth you ever thought that I wanted _normal?"_

But Sherlock seemed to be put on edge even worse than before, his voice rising and he still couldn't face him, he _still_ could not look at him. "It is not just an inability to be average. I will never not embarrass you at a party, should I even want to go. I will never not make your friends upset. I will alway say the wrong thing, at the wrong time, to the wrong person. Everyone will always want to know why you insist on wasting your time with such an obnoxious, dreadful person, and you will lose your patience with why I can _never_ let you have one normal night, and I--"

He trailed off with another great breath of annoyance, ducking his face against his interlocked hands, looking exasperated beyond words. He shook his head once, so vigorously his hair whipped back and forth with it.

"John," he said again. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm autistic."

There was a beat of silence.

"Technically," he added, with a sour note to his voice and an equally tense set of his shoulders. The added note to his voice said exactly what he felt about it and why it was only _technically._ "And Mycroft is not."

Another moment of silence.

"Um," John said. "All right." He set two plates down, wiping his hands off with a flannel. "That doesn't surprise me, to tell you the truth. But. Thank you for confirming it?"

Sherlock did not answer for almost a minute, after that. He stayed down on the floor, his legs folded up like he was half his age, and bore another whack from the stuffed bee in complete silence. Clearly, what Sherlock was actually trying to say had not been heard.

John waited.

"What I mean is," he finally said, "you stressed earlier how important you thought it was that we not keep secrets. That we be honest with each other. And I want you to... know what exactly you are getting into, before you commit. Because I. You. I would much prefer it, if. If you thought that I could change, there is actually a limit to how much I am capable of it, and I suspect that limit is rather low, and... if you decided this was insurmountable, then... then I would prefer you know it now, and not--"

It took another moment. Of Sherlock's horribly uncharacteristic stammering, his words low and stilted and John never wanted to hear him sound like that again. But then, what Sherlock was trying to tell him clicked, and John heard the core of what was underneath the fumbling words, and what it was that he could not say. _Oh._

"Sherlock," he started, cutting him off right then and right there, because he couldn't hear this anymore. He moved around to join him on the floor, and he met Sherlock's steady, absolutely beautiful and absolutely cold eyes. He knew him well enough by now to know it was all an act. "Rosie, can you give Sherlock your bee?"

"Bee," Rosie parroted. She blinked up at Sherlock with big, bright eyes, almost as blue as Sherlock's, and thrust her bee into his lap.

Very befuddled, Sherlock blinked. He accepted the bee without protest, then stared between it and John, as if he didn't know what to think. "Thank you, Watson," he said gravely, still looking a little shellshocked, then looked back up at John. "I--"

John kissed him again. "You," he said, against his mouth, "are a gigantic idiot, Sherlock."

He kissed Sherlock until he felt the tension drain away, he kissed him until he felt Sherlock start to smile again, relaxing under his hands again, just like that; he kissed him on the floor of the kitchen in 221B until Rosie hit both their faces with her toy, and proclaimed again, _"Bee!"_

They were going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> As you can see, this really is the ending chapter. What's up next is a very small ending bow of an epilogue, just a bit of resolution and fluff as a thank you for making it this far :)
> 
> And if you somehow still want to read even more words after that monster chapter,  
> [Come check out additional commentary for this fic on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/628703245319159808/this-commentary-is-a-bit-different-this-time) Though this time, rather than Sherlock meta, it's commentary on upper academia and the story Sherlock told in this chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments/kudos!!! It's been an absolutely wonderful ride for me, and I'm glad so many of you had fun along the way as well!!!
> 
> One last chapter, and as promised, a little bit of healing fluff to make up for your suffering <3

For a little over a week, the headlines in every supermarket tabloid bounced between the affairs of the monarchy, and the sexuality of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock did not go to the supermarket himself, but John had, with a little prodding, passed on that there were a fantastic amount of photoshops with a fantastic number of men. Many of the headlines hinted at a story twice as salacious as Janine's.

John, thankfully, had been left out of it. A more sympathetic character could not be painted than the single father to a baby girl and a widower, a widower who had only just survived the tragic loss and brutal murder of his wife. Nobody wanted a headline smearing the name and reputation of _that_ character. To which John seemed relatively indifferent towards, but Sherlock could not have been more grateful. The press had called him everything, at one time or another-- from a freak to a genius to a murderer. He was nearly forty years old. He could live with a few photoshopped headlines of him snogging another man.

He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself for John being treated the same way.

A much quieter story, not a headline at all, was of Oscar's subsequent separation from his wife. It looked likely that divorce proceedings were to follow, along the heels of his retirement.

He suspected Oscar's retirement was forced as well. Cambridge didn't care about the marital affairs of their staff, but they certainly did care when they were with former teenage students, with the tabloid 'journalists' already suggesting they'd be looking to find out if that relationship had started before Sherlock had left school. Sherlock suspected Mycroft had played his hand, as well.

Sherlock didn't care, one way or the other.

He just wanted this chapter to be over.

And for weeks, weeks and weeks and weeks, it was.

* * *

A letter came.

Sherlock didn't pay much mind to his mail. Bills were deducted from his accounts without him needing to attend to them, and everything else, well, why would he care? If it was something truly deserving of attention, then they could manage to write into the blog or stop by the flat in person. Potential cases, junk mail, _fan-mail--_ none of it was worth the time it would take to slice open the letter. They were good at being spread out over the table, he supposed; a convenient cover should his pipette drip or a beaker spill.

But this time, a letter came, and Sherlock took notice of it just before it made it into a dramatic toss across the flat. Because it stood out. It was heavier than the rest, a large, especially expensive, specially shipped missive. It spoke of an attempted reward from a wealthy client, and to be honest Sherlock would have just gone on to toss it, had it not been for the return address.

Cambridge University.

He weighed the letter in his hands. He felt the smooth paper, the smooth lines of the typed address, the creases of the envelope and the heaviness of the contents inside.

He couldn't deduce what it was.

Sherlock wasn't exactly the sort of distinguished alumnus to often get flattering letters in the mail from his alma mater.

He frowned down at the letter again.

"Oh, they sent you a copy, too? I didn't realise-- Mycroft must've asked for it. Sorry," John spoke up, watching him from the kitchen. He stood there cleaning up Rosie's toys, a stuffed animal in one hand and a blanket over the other. It was still, after all this time, impossibly too domestic and unbelievable and overwhelming to be real, and a little seed of delight took root in his chest with each time. "I was going to give you my copy, actually, I'd just wanted to talk to you about it first, but... I guess the cat's out of the bag now."

"Don't use senseless metaphors. There is no cat, and there is no bag." Sherlock frowned at the letter again, unease whispering in his ears. John: keeping a secret from him. With _Mycroft._ "What is this?"

But John at least did not seem worried, and that helped. It meant he did not think there was something to be worried about. "Well, why don't you open it and see?" He looked away under the pretense of sweeping up another armful of toys, but it really was a waste of time-- Sherlock could see him watching him out of the corner of his eye with every turn. "It's nothing bad, I promise."

Sherlock frowned back down at the envelope in his hands.

Then, he tore it open with one ragged rip, and shook the contents out onto his lap.

His heart skipped.

"This is..." Sherlock licked his lips, his mouth gone suddenly dry. He looked up at John, another thudded heartbeat sounding in his ears. _"John."_

John hesitated again. "I figured you wouldn't actually care all that much about one for yourself. It's just a piece of paper to you. And like I said, that one's just a copy-- they're sending the real one to his parents, in Sussex. But I wanted to... I thought that this was a start, at least." He broke off again, his fingers working nervously into the blanket over his arm. "Is it... is it all right?"

_The Trustees of Cambridge College make known to all whom these letters may come that by the advice of the faculty they have posthumously conferred upon_

_Victor E. Trevor_

_the academic degree of_

_Masters in Inorganic Chemistry_

It was a diploma.

John moved carefully closer, just close enough to close his fingers over his. He didn't realise how tightly he was clenching the paper until John's fingers brushed his knuckles, softly loosening the fist he'd formed around the letter. "Like I said, I didn't think you'd want one for yourself." His voice was low, again, almost gentle. "If I was wrong, Cambridge is willing to talk with you, too, but-- I didn't want to get your hopes up about Victor's. Not until I was sure they'd come through."

It was a diploma.

A posthumous degree, for the program that Victor had dropped out of nearly twenty years ago, for a man who had died of a drug overdose in a hovel. Someone that Cambridge would've wanted no association with whatsoever, over someone who until very recently had been one of their most prestigious professors for nearly thirty years.

A diploma, for Victor.

Sherlock's throat stung.

"...Sherlock?"

He didn't realise until John's hands gently closed around his that he had been perfectly silent, now, approaching on two minutes. Three? His brain had been knocked offline. And John didn't like when he did that, John worried--

He cleared his throat and the cobwebs in his head all at once, trying to shake himself back alive. "It's-- it's fine. It's--" he coughed, his voice wavering. "It's good, I mean. Yes. It's... thank you, John."

Good. Yes.

Potentially one of the biggest understatements of this side of the century.

_Good._

John's eyes warmed with relief. Which was simply _absurd,_ the thought that John _ever_ could've been worried about this, but they all did silly things, didn't they? Sherlock pressed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear the sentiment from his throat, and held still when he felt John's hand trail down the inside of his wrist. Ah. There was more.

"As it turns out," he went on, "not even Mycroft has all that much pull with the Nobel committee, and this is all a bit... unprecedented. There's really no promises, there. But I talked to someone who said if the story gains traction, if it does really well and public pressure starts up, then maybe there'd be something they could do."

His legs still felt a bit numb, and rather than embarrass himself shortly Sherlock caved himself to sit down, leaning against the arm of his chair. It was like being hit in the face with something he'd never conceptualised to even exist before and now he had no idea what to do with it.

John was right. A piece of paper meant nothing to him. He had never needed Cambridge's permission to call himself a scientist. He'd also never cared about prizes, or overpriced pomp and circumstance in Sweden, or proper credit. It was true, though, that Victor had made the initial discovery and had the initial idea, that had solidified Oscar's prize, and from there his career. Sherlock had been the one to discover it in his notebooks, and figure out a way to prove it. Victor's idea, Sherlock's work-- Oscar had done little more than just follow the instructions that Sherlock had already laid out. He'd been annoyed about it at the time, that Sherlock had insisted on working on Victor's project instead of devoting himself entirely to Oscar's own, and wound up refusing to help him on it, in his way. Meetings cancelled or shown up late to. The few that did happen derailed with alcohol and touching. Oscar sneering about it and mocking his progress whenever Sherlock tried to bring it up.

John knew. He'd told John so, in making good on his promise to continue at least trying to talk to him about it. He'd just... never thought... never _wanted..._

Another piece of what John had said finally registered, slowly sinking in through the fog around his head. "If the _story_ gains traction?" He frowned again, lowering the diploma to his lap. "What do you mean? What story?"

"Right, ah, that... that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

Slowly, almost warily, John joined him in sitting down. His fingers stayed curled around his hands but his face stayed calm, always nothing but calm, and Sherlock anchored himself on that as he listened on. He could always trust John.

"Nothing would've ever happened without your permission-- this wasn't going to ever be behind your back. Well, not just your permission, really; everyone's. I've already got Victor's parents, but I want consent for every chapter."

"Every chapter," Sherlock repeated, still just a little numb. "You're... writing a _book."_

"A bit, in a way-- Sherlock, come on, sit down." John squeezed his hand again and pulled, very gently, bringing Sherlock down fully into his chair, and once there he just stroked the inside of his wrist in that way of his, the way he did when he wanted to help calm him down. "Like I said, nothing without permission. But you and Victor weren't the only students who had their work stolen by Oscar. You also were the last student that he-- slept with--" His jaw clenched again, his eyes dark. John, Sherlock knew, hated to speak about it like that. He hated the words Sherlock used to describe it, and how they still tended to be positive and light and... _consensual._ Sometimes he refused to.

Sometimes, when he had a point to make and that wasn't it, he would give in.

"But," John pressed ahead, his eyes big and earnest and sincere. "In any case, Sherlock, there was one before Victor, and there were still plenty that he hurt after. Not sexually, but he still stole their data, and treated them like shit, and nearly or actually did ruin their careers. And, it'd be a little, or... a whole lot of work, but... I wanted to write an exposé. A chapter for each student, to properly credit their work. Maybe start properly authoring some of the publications under his name. It's one of the reasons Cambridge was so willing to work with me on Victor, actually," he added, his small smile turning satisfied, with a very slight but telling glint of danger. "They knew the book was coming, and decided maybe not to piss off the guy writing a tell-all of sexual abuse they let on under their watch."

Sherlock sank deeper back into his chair, tracing the print of the diploma again. The thick, ridiculous letters that meant nothing to him, but would've meant so much to Victor.

This was what John had been doing, these past several weeks. This was why he'd been so distracted and especially affectionate all at once. He'd been in talks with Cambridge, and planning a bloody book.

"I'm going to need a science consultant no matter what," John started again. The way his eyes were watching him was very careful, almost wary, but at least he did not let go of Sherlock's hand. "Inorganic chem isn't really a focus in med school and I'm a bit over my head, to tell you the truth. I can find someone else if you'd prefer, but... if you wanted to help me in properly sorting everything, then it'd be really appreciated. I think Oscar's organisational system is worse than yours."

The last bit was said as a joke, to help him relax. But there was more. He could feel it, in how John's fingers moved against his.

John was quiet for another moment, watching him as his smile fell. "I'd also really like to write a chapter about you," he said finally. "But only if you're all right with it, Sherlock. You're only involved as much as you want to be and if you'd rather not be in it or even if you don't want me to write the book at all, that's okay."

It was almost dizzying. It was the most touching, considerate thing anyone had ever done for him, and in that, it was overwhelming, because Sherlock knew he could never do anything to pay it back. He knew he could never do anything to be worth all of it, there were never any words to properly express how much this meant to him, and he could never do anything to pay this back to John. The fact that John was sitting there, clearly bracing for what he was expecting to be a furious reaction back, was as ridiculous as it was puzzling.

It was also a problem.

Because John was waiting for him to react, watching him, growing more and more unsettled the longer Sherlock just sat there like a statue, and the longer it went on, the more John thought he'd done something _wrong._ But he hadn't, John hd done something _amazing,_ he was always amazing, his conductor of light, and now Sherlock was supposed to respond properly back. But what was the next move? What was he supposed to say or do?

He thought about how Oscar had reacted, the first times he'd tried to tell him no. How he'd just brushed it off, and kept pushing until the no turned into a yes, and kept pushing from there, too, until he'd stopped saying it at all. He thought about how Oscar had reacted, the first time he'd told him _no,_ and stood his ground.

Waking up alone next morning, alcohol in his stomach still scarred from surgery, and on his way to a panic attack.

He watched John out of the corner of his eye, and cleared his throat.

"I will be your consultant, if you need it. And you do. I've read your write-up for the last case we took concerning graduate-level chemistry and it was, as you say, _spectacularly ignorant_. But I will not--" His throat scratched at itself and he shifted, suddenly having to tear his eyes off of John's. "I will need to think about the rest."

John squeezed his hand again.

And then, he let go.

"Okay," he said easily. "Let me know, yeah? Either way is fine with me." He got to his feet, patting Sherlock's shoulder on his way by. "You want to order in, tonight? Thai okay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to the steady pounding of his heart underneath the clammy skin along the back of his neck, and breathed.

"Yes," he rasped. "Thai is fine."

* * *

John, Sherlock decided, was acting strangely.

Not in a worrisome way to bring cause for alarm. Not at all. And John, he could tell, was not worried himself. John, in fact, was as perfectly relaxed as could be. He'd come over to Baker Street that evening without Rosie in tow, though Sherlock wasn't sure what the point of the pretense was-- he slept better the nights he stayed over, and 76% of his possessions were already in the flat. Perhaps it was part of what _taking things slowly_ meant.

It was all right. He knew John was planning on asking him to move back in. He could wait for it. The flat had already been made safe for Rosie, Mrs. Hudson would be absolutely beside herself, and Sherlock would... be glad for it. Very much so. Yes.

But John came over, wearing his favorite dark-blue shirt that was becoming one of Sherlock's favorites, too. He appeared with takeaway from Angelo's, as promised, and the first thing he did was kiss Sherlock, and tell him he looked amazing.

"I look like this all the time," Sherlock pointed out, just a bit befuddled, but growing warm from the compliments all the same. "I'm not even wearing the coat."

"Well, maybe you look amazing all the time." John smiled into his chin, tugging his collar straight, smoothing a hand down the lines of his shirt. "Though I can admit that the most expensive, dramatic coat in London doesn't hurt."

John kissed him. He set the takeaway out with Sherlock's help, the kitchen table overtaken by an ongoing experiment into viscosity levels, so they settled at the desk instead, eating over case notes and Sherlock's charging laptop. He didn't pour himself a drink, despite Sherlock still owning a few dusty bottles of ancient whiskey rattling around the cabinets somewhere, assorted gifts from clients. Sherlock couldn't be positive, but he was at least somewhat confident that John had not had a drink since that night with Oscar, now weeks and weeks ago. Sherlock hadn't, either.

They ate. John interrogated him for details on their latest case and took notes for his next blog post, and Sherlock kept trying to steal his pen to scratch out the the puns he _knew_ he was writing down because he could see them in his face as soon as they came to mind. John snuck his arms under his to stick bites into his mouth as he talked, his fingers playing with Sherlock's sleeves, and it was soft and warm and tender and familiar. It felt _familiar,_ was the stunning thing, it was something that they had done more and more now and with every day it became more and more comfortable. This was something that Sherlock could have. With John. This was something that he could do. It was something that he _liked._

John tugged him to the sofa, after, the takeaway containers binned and plates lying mostly empty on the desk. He sat closer than friends could sit, but that was okay, it was _okay,_ because John was still his friend, his best friend, but now he was even more. "Is this okay?" he asked, very close, his hand cupping the nape of his neck. "Do you want to keep doing this a little more?"

"Yes." He closed his eyes, inhaling in the deep, intoxicating warmth that was better than any drug. " _Yes,_ John."

He kissed him until John's notes were abandoned somewhere on the floor. _"Christ,_ I love you," he whispered into Sherlock's skin. Those three words, those words right there, Sherlock didn't think he'd _ever_ get tired of hearing.

"Stay," he said. "You want to. I know you do."

"I do."

"Then stay."

"I..." John leaned closer and pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, his arm around his back and his hand slipped under his shirt, fingers tracing over scars and clean skin without regard for the difference. "I will. But not tonight."

_"John."_

John smiled into him, squeezing him very, very tight. "I _will,_ " he promised again, and he stroked his hair, and he kissed his neck again, and it was so _good._ "I need to go pick up Rosie. I can't sleep over tonight, Sherlock. But soon. Okay?"

Sherlock sighed. _Not good enough._ He could tell John meant it, though, and in any case, he was right about Rosie. Of course. John of a few years ago would've blown it off, because Rosie was too young to remember, what was the harm of one night with a sitter-- but that was John of a few years ago, and this was John now, and they weren't the same. Sherlock didn't want them to be the same.

 _But soon,_ John had said. All right. _All right._

He got kissed again, one more time, and then John pulled gently back, his hands tracing through his hair. He smiled at Sherlock, flushed and just a bit breathless. "Come downstairs with me?"

Of course he would.

Sherlock trailed John down the stairs in the dark, past Mrs. Hudson's closed door, all the way down and then out to the street. He didn't want to let go of John's hand at all. But-- soon, he'd said. Soon he wouldn't have to. Soon, he might stay. With Rosie.

"I'd ask you to use your magical taxi hailing abilities to call me a ride," John started, squeezing his fingers. "But something tells me you'd refuse to, just for the excuse to drag me back in there."

"Perhaps there is hope for your deductive prowess yet."

John rolled his eyes, and hailed the cab on his own.

Hmph.

He kissed him again, just one more time, standing on the sidewalk with the door open and the cabbie watching them both. "Lovely," John said, smiling warmly against his mouth. He stepped back again, with one last fond squeeze of his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay? To start really writing up the case."

"If you insist."

"Mhmm." John grinned, stepping all the way back against the cab. "And... how do you feel right now, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"How do you feel?"

"I don't--" He frowned back. A quick skim through the palace confirmed it: no existing data for how he was meant to respond. What sort of question was that? "I feel fine, of course."

John's grin broadened, as if he was very, very pleased about something. "Good? Do you feel good?"

 _"Yes,_ John, I should think that's fairly obvious, what--?"

He nodded again, satisfied. "Good." He gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek, just one more, and then dropped back down to sit in the cab. _"This_ is what a first date is supposed to feel like."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

And-- that was that. John grinned at him from the cab, giving him a small wave from the window, and then the cab pulled away and he was gone. He was leaving Baker Street with Sherlock left on the kerb, his face flushed and warm, to go pick up his daughter, and come back with her to him the next morning. _Oh._

It took less than a minute after John was gone, the cab pulled around the corner and Sherlock left behind, his hair ruffled and his shirt halfway pulled out, for his phone to vibrate in his pocket.

**John Watson / 20:15**

I love you

**John Watson / 20:15**

Forgot to say

Sherlock grinned at his phone. A new, delighted warmth spread, filling him up from the inside out.

_**sent / 20:15** _

_Likewise. -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, stay healthy, and I hope to see you next time! (I've already got more angst tentatively in the works......) <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


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